Date: 2016-07-24 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Horror; Science Fiction Fantasy
Description: Barred from crossing the NorthAm border, Clay McAulay, his AI co-pilot Gibbons, and their battle mech, are forced to flee into the warped and twisted territory of the Midlands. A desolate, dreary landscape filled with denizens of questionable character, the Midlands has the reputation of a place folks want to avoid on their travels. Few ever enter, almost none ever leave. Clay is quickly embroiled in a conflict between the townsfolk of Perdition Plains and a mad scientist that may have discovered the secrets to immortality. Clay tries to extricate himself from the volatile situation, but as al
Publisher: SEVERED Press

Fighting Iron 2

Perdition Plains

Jake Bible

Copyright2016 by Jake Bible
www.severedpress.com

One

“How many are left?” Clay asked, focusing his attention on the never-ending wilted grasses and ancient craters that pocked the landscape ahead of the mech. “Gibbons? Talk to me!”

“Calm down, Clay,” Gibbons replied, his voice squelching as one of the cockpit speakers gave out. “Dammit. I’ll add that to the list of repairs.”

“Switch to coms,” Clay said. “It’ll be easier. And screw the list of repairs. If we don’t ditch these rollers, we won’t need repairs, we’ll need coffins.”

“You will,” Gibbons said. “I don’t have a body.”

“What do you call the mech?” Clay asked as he piloted the fifty-foot tall battle machine into a jump over an exceptionally large crater. It landed easily on the other side, barely missing a step.

“It’s not a body, Clay,” Gibbons responded. “Just a vehicle for my consciousness.”

“Isn’t that what a body is?” Clay asked. He checked the plasma cannons, but they still had not reached a useful charge. “I’d call my old bag of bones a vehicle for my consciousness.”

“Three,” Gibbons said.

“What? Three? Is that some AI spiritual code?” Clay asked.

“No, pal, that’s how many rollers are still pursuing us,” Gibbons replied. “You asked how many are left and I answered. And AIs do not have a spiritual code.”

“You don’t know that,” Clay said. “Who made you the universal spokesman for all AIs?”

“Clay? Can we focus on the problem at hand?” Gibbons insisted.

Clay grunted in response.

An alarm bleeped at him.

“Incoming RPG!” Gibbons cried, his voice painfully loud in Clay’s ear.

“I see it!” Clay said as he slid the mech to a halt, spinning to face the oncoming rocket.

“Clay? No!” Gibbons yelled as Clay ran the mech directly back at the rocket.

“Gotta get in under its detonation time,” Clay said, his eyes focused on the thin stream of white smoke that came flying at them. “We’re out of ammo and the cannons are barely glowing. No choice, Gibbons.”

“There is always a choice, Clay,” Gibbons responded, but said nothing else. Clay was the pilot, and he’d chosen a course of action.

The mech reached the rocket, the rocket reached the mech. A massive steel hand plucked the rocket from the air as the mech spun in a quick circle. Before the mech had turned 360 degrees, Clay let go of the rocket and sent it racing back at the three rollers that had relentlessly pursued them since the NorthAm border.

Two of the rollers swerved out of the way. The third did not and suffered for the driver’s lack of defensive skill. It could be assumed the driver suffered as much as the roller did since the entire vehicle went up in a ball of fire, sending shrapnel exploding out in a mushroom of flame and black smoke.

One of the other rollers caught a huge rubber tire in the windshield and came to a sudden halt, blood spraying out from the shattered plastiglass. The third roller stopped as well. NorthAm soldiers leaped from the doors, half-hurrying to their comrades, the other half taking knees and lifting carbines to their shoulders.

“Clay,” Gibbons said.

“I see ‘em,” Clay said and turned the mech on its heel. He didn’t bother looking at the scanners as the soldiers opened fire; he could hear the bullets ricocheting off the mech’s frame just fine. “Status?”

“No serious damage,” Gibbons said. “We’ve repaired worse.”

“Yeah, we have,” Clay said and diverted as much power as he could to the mech’s legs while still maintaining control. A full-out run would have been ideal, but the abundance of craters made that a near impossibility.

It wasn’t until they were half a kilometer away before the gunfire stopped, although the bullets hadn’t hit the mech for a good dozen meters. Half an hour later, the mech hit the horizon, and the rollers were lost from sight, only a pillar of black smoke rising into the sky left as evidence of their existence.

Clay slowed the mech to a fast walk.

“Run diagnostics,” Clay ordered.

“I already am, Clay,” Gibbons replied. “I do know my job.”

“Didn’t say you don’t,” Clay responded as he stood up from the pilot’s seat and stretched. “Just being thorough.”

He moved across the tight space of the cockpit and kicked the toe of his boot against a small lever. A waist-high basin appeared, and Clay unzipped his trousers to relieve himself.

“Been holding that for three hours now,” Clay said. “Feel lucky you aren’t ruled by bodily functions, buddy.”

“No need to rub your humanity in my face, pal,” Gibbons said.

Clay shook and zipped. “I wasn’t,” he said. “I was just pointing out that you don’t have the physical limitations that I do.”

“We all have physical limitations,” Gibbons said, his tone short. “We exist in a physical world.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Clay responded as he sat back in the pilot’s seat. “What time is it?”

“1750,” Gibbons responded. “Sunset is in approximately eighteen minutes.”

Clay stared out at the glowing sky before him. Huge, billowing clouds of white and grey clung to the horizon like heavy puffs of mist over a lake, sending orange and red rays of light streaming in all directions.

Clay knew the reputation of the area, though. The white clouds would soon become grey, and the billowing would turn into a constant blanket of dreary gloom. He sighed.

“Find us a crater large enough that we can hunker down in for the night,” Clay said. “I hate being exposed out on these plains.”

“Will do, pal,” Gibbons said. “Your bio-signs tell me you are exhausted. Get some sleep, Clay. I’ve got this.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Clay said and stretched out so that his feet pressed up against the front of the cockpit. He reclined the seat and tilted his well-worn leather and felt hat over his face, blocking the last of the bright sunset. “Wake me if you need me.”

“You know I will,” Gibbons said.

“Yeah, I do,” Clay replied.

He was fast asleep before the sun was lost to the land.

Two

When Clay came to, he was on his side and staring at faded brown dirt. He looked down and saw he was strapped into the safety harness of the pilot’s seat. He had no memory of doing that, but life in a mech meant many half-awake moments that he couldn’t recall the next day.

Carefully, he undid the buckles on the harness and braced himself against the seat so he didn’t fall against the side of the cockpit. Clay shook the sleep from his head and oriented himself.

Dirt outside the cockpit hatch. The mech was obviously on its side.

Gibbons had found a large enough crater and hunkered down, just like Clay’d asked.

Despite the cockpit being closed and latched tight, Clay could smell the damp earth outside. A faint glow through the hatch told him that sunrise was coming.

“How long was I asleep?” Clay asked as he stretched awkwardly in the sideways space.

“Ten hours,” Gibbons replied. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Clay responded. “Room enough to pop the hatch and let me out to stretch my legs?”

“Just barely,” Gibbons said as the cockpit hatch unlocked and eased about a half meter wide until the front came to rest against the crater’s dirt side. “Scanners show no rollers or other threats.”

“Good to know,” Clay said as he squeezed through the hatch’s opening and scrambled his way up and out of the mech then the crater.

The sky was a steely grey, with a heavy cloud bank covering everything. No surprise.

“Storm coming?” Clay asked.

“Not according to the radar,” Gibbons said. “But you know how the plains can be. Unpredictable at best.”

“At best,” Clay echoed.

Clay relieved himself by the side of the crater, zipped, and began walking, welcoming the feel of open space. He was born to be a mech pilot, but a cockpit was no place to spend one’s life at all times. Clay needed to work some circulation back into his lower extremities, get the feel of land under his boots for a few minutes before they continued on their way.

But which way?

Clay grumbled as he stopped in the knee-high grass and turned in a slow circle. He wasn’t supposed to be there. The coordinates in the mech’s system said he needed to get through NorthAm. Northeast. He was going the wrong way. West was not part of the plan.

Not that he knew the plan exactly.

“Gibbons?” he called.

“Yes, Clay?” Gibbons replied.

“Double check the coms log,” Clay ordered. “Make sure we didn’t miss a hail from those rollers. There has to be some reason they chased us away from the NorthAm border with guns blazing and no questions asked.”

“Yes, there has to be,” Gibbons said. “But I can’t find that reason. I’ve been over the coms log, all scanner readings, the hardwired route, everything. At the very least, the NorthAm border patrol should have stopped us and asked to see transit papers. They didn’t even do that.”

“No, they didn’t,” Clay said. “They started shooting instead.”

“They knew we were coming?” Gibbons posed.

“So?” Clay responded. “That doesn’t explain the instantly defensive behavior. Even if they were tipped off that we were crossing, what does that matter? There’s no reason for us to be on their radar.”

“Perhaps news of what happened back in Del Rado and the business with General Hansen and the Mister preceded us,” Gibbons said.

“That was Northeast MexiCali business,” Clay countered. “No reason it would concern NorthAm border troops.”

“Money and power concern everyone, pal,” Gibbons scoffed. “I may be an AI, but even I know that much about human behavior.”

Clay grunted in response. Gibbons was right. News of a power upset like the one Clay had caused would travel fast. Might make those that held the power on the other side of the NorthAm border slightly nervous to have a rogue mech stomping its way through the territory. Clay turned to the east and watched the sun make its presence known on the far horizon. A pink strip under a grey blanket.

“Still doesn’t explain why they didn’t respond to hails or even try to hail us themselves,” Clay said finally. “It was a kill order, pure and simple. I want to know why.”

“Long-range scanners show nothing,” Gibbons said. “If it was a kill order, then it was without a pursuit order.”

“Let’s walk,” Clay said. “Get up out of that crater.”

“You’re staying on foot?” Gibbons asked.

“Yeah,” Clay replied. “Feels good. No offense, buddy, but the smell of morning dew beats the smell of my own trapped farts up in that cockpit any day.”

“No need to explain that to me,” Gibbons said. “I have to take my olfactory sensors offline to avoid them redlining halfway through the day.”

“Ha freaking ha,” Clay said.

He moved a few meters away from the crater, just in case the ground wasn’t stable as Gibbons climbed the mech up out of the hole. Clay waited patiently for Gibbons to go through a mobility checklist, making sure all joints were in good working order. Even fifty-foot battle machines stiffened up overnight. Other than a few creaks, and a muted bang as a stuck strut popped back into motion, the mech was ready for travel.

Clay swore as he realized he had left his hat up in the cockpit.

“Hey, Gibbons?” Clay called.

“Hold on,” Gibbons said.

There was a loud puff of air from above, and Clay’s hat went flying from the cockpit, sailing several meters out over the grassy plains. It floated lazily to the ground, and Clay took his time retrieving it, still not awake enough for any type of hurrying. Clay picked up his hat and set it on his head, a subconscious smile on his face as the familiar sweat-stained band inside molded to his skull.

“Better?” Gibbons asked.

“Better,” Clay said.

“Your pistol is still up here,” Gibbons said.

“That’s fine,” Clay replied as he felt at his right thigh to make sure his knife was securely strapped there. “If we get into a shooting situation, I’ll have you lift me up. My pigsticker is good enough for now. It’ll handle any angry prairie dogs or ornery rattlesnakes.”

They walked in silence for an hour, Clay weaving his way around the many craters, Gibbons stepping over the modest-sized ones, jumping over the big ones. The sun had started to heat the back of Clay’s neck, and he glanced over his shoulder, sad to see the morning clouds burning off behind him, but not in front.

Normally, cloud cover would have been welcome out in the open plains, but in late October, a little warmth from the sun was a pleasant indulgence. An indulgence that wasn’t going to last as he and Gibbons continued forward. Clay pulled the poncho he wore tight around him.

Another twenty minutes and the craters began to lessen until they were thankfully few and far between. Clay was about to mention the terrain to Gibbons, pulled up short instead. He cocked his head, listening, then crouched and placed his palm flat on the ground.

“What is that?” Clay asked.

“Hold on,” Gibbons replied. “Scanner readings are confusing. Seismic activity is not normal for this part of the continent, so I don’t think it’s geological.”

“See anything?” Clay asked. “Army of heavy rollers? The ground is shaking hard enough for at least a dozen or more to be coming at us. So much for that no pursuit order.”

“There’s a dark mass on the scanners, but it is so dense I can’t parse what it is,” Gibbons said.

“Well, parse harder, buddy,” Clay said.

The noise grew, the shaking of the ground grew, Clay’s apprehension grew. He stood and turned in a slow circle.

“That mass? Is it coming from the east?” Clay asked as a distant memory came back to him. Stories he’d heard of the mech cavalry days.

“It is,” Gibbons replied.

“I know what it is,” Clay said. “Get me up top. Now.”

The ground shook even harder, and Clay had to widen his stance to keep from being jostled.

“Oh,” Gibbons said. “Scanners have cleaned up the image. Oh. I see what’s coming now.”

“Get me up top and in the cockpit,” Clay said, his voice tense and urgent. “We need to move. Those things will take us out at the ankles and thoroughly mess up the mech.”

“No shit, pal,” Gibbons said and plucked Clay up off the ground with two huge fingers then dropped him into the cockpit.

Clay didn’t complain about the rough treatment; he just strapped into the pilot’s chair and began looking at a map readout.

“Son of a bitch,” Clay said. “That herd is massive.”

“Three kilometers from end to end,” Gibbons said. “Only one kilometer wide, though. If we run at full speed and cut a diagonal path northwest, we may only get clipped by the far edge.”

“Great,” Clay said as he stared at the map for one last second.

Bison. A hell of a lot of bison.

“Point us in the right direction and let’s get the hell outta here,” Clay said as he engaged the drive systems and pushed the throttle to full.

The mech’s engines produced a loud hum as they burned through the geothermal energy stored in the power cells throughout the mech’s substructure. While geothermal worked fine, it would have been ideal to utilize stores of grey—radioactive water that served no purpose other than to power mechs—but grey was hard to come by and geothermal was just under the Earth’s crust.

The finer points of energy efficiency were not on Clay’s mind as he looked from the view out of the cockpit to the gaining mass of bison on the scanners. A huge blob of destruction was racing towards them, and they had a very small window of opportunity in which to not get taken down.

“Estimates?” Clay asked.

“A million, possibly two,” Gibbons answered.

“Great,” Clay sighed.

“I wouldn’t call it great,” Gibbons said.

“Sarcasm,” Clay replied.

“Right back at you,” Gibbons responded.

Even with the mech’s jostling as it sprinted across the prairie, Clay could feel the vibrations caused by the bison herd. Through the cockpit’s floor, through the pilot’s seat, and deep into his bones, Clay felt the potential death and destruction coming up their butt.

“What happens if one of them has to stop and piss?” Clay asked. “Does it just get trampled to death?”

“My guess is the creature would pee while running,” Gibbons said. “I don’t believe stopping is part of the order of things. Not unless it wants to be a bison cake.”

“Mmmm, bison cakes sound good right now,” Clay said. “I’m freaking starving.” He clicked open a small hatch at the side of the pilot’s seat and rummaged through it until he found a pouch of salted meat. “Is this beef?”

“I don’t think so,” Gibbons said.

“Deer?” Clay asked, hope filling his voice.

“Could be,” Gibbon said. “What color is the pouch?”

“It’s the charcoal one,” Clay said.

“Then it’s close,” Gibbons said. “Antelope from the Sonoran.”

“Oh, right,” Clay said. “Maybe we can snag a couple of bison on the fringe of the herd and take a day to butcher and smoke them?”

“Let’s cross that river when we come to it,” Gibbons said. “Oh… Crap…”

“What?” Clay asked as he tore off a hunk of salted meat and took a large pull from his water. “What’s crap?”

“Crossing a river when we come to it,” Gibbons said. “Take a look.”

Clay glanced at the readout in front of him. He’d been so focused on the herd coming at them that he hadn’t noticed the thin line directly before them. As the mech got closer, he quickly saw that the line wasn’t so thin. It was quite wide.

“Gibbons? I need a new route now!” Clay shouted as he piloted the mech north, parallel to the raging river that was only a quarter kilometer ahead of them. “Gibbons!”

“I heard you!” Gibbons shouted back. “I hear everything you say, pal! I don’t have a damn choice, ya know!”

“Then give me a new route!” Clay barked.

“There isn’t one!” Gibbons yelled. “We are going to have to cross this river!”

“Son of a bitch,” Clay growled as he turned the mech back towards the long body of water that was violently raging through the middle of the prairie. “Where the hell did this river come from?”

“I don’t know,” Gibbons said. “I cross-referenced all maps in my database and have no record of it. The last time the database was updated, there was no river.”

“Yeah, well, we know how long ago that was,” Clay said. “So no surprise that the landscape has changed.”

“Not this dramatically,” Gibbons said. “Come on, pal, a river this size doesn’t just show up without some help.”

“Man-made?” Clay asked.

“Duh,” Gibbons said.

“That’s worse,” Clay said.

“How so?” Gibbons asked.

“It means resources and machinery capable of making a river,” Clay said. “We don’t want to get anywhere near the person or organization behind that.”

“Oh, right,” Gibbons said. “Very true.”

“Bridges?” Clay asked.

“No,” Gibbons replied instantly.

“How about shallow points we can ford?” Clay asked.

“Can’t tell,” Gibbons said. “We’ll have to get closer.”

“Great,” Clay said.

He piloted the mech directly at the river, getting it within ten meters before turning back in a northerly direction.

“Anything?” Clay asked.

“A possibility up ahead,” Gibbons said. “Six meters or seven meters.”

“Six or seven meters? Deep?” Clay exclaimed. “That’s up to the cockpit!”

“It is either that or twenty meters,” Gibbons said. “Whatever made this river put a serious gouge in the earth.”

“You’re telling me,” Clay said.

“Four meters then cross,” Gibbons said. “But we have to hurry.”

“I am,” Clay said.

“No, hurry!” Gibbons insisted. “Hurry! Clay, we need to cross now!”

Proximity alarms rang out in the cockpit and Clay looked at the scanners. The bison were on them. The mech was caught between the huge river and the giant herd. There was nowhere to go.

“Clay!” Gibbons yelled as the herd crashed into the mech, taking it out at the legs and sending it tumbling onto the riverbank.

Which quickly crumbled under the weight of the machine and the herd. It all happened so fast that Clay barely had time to register that the riverbank wasn’t mud and dirt, but thick concrete.

“Seal us in!” Clay yelled as the water rushed up over the cockpit.

“I am!” Gibbons yelled back. “But we have a problem! Air tanks are not full! Not even close!”

“Dammit!” Clay yelled as the mech was swept downriver by the raging current, thousands of bison floundering about them as they were forced into the rapids by the power of the herd.

Three

“Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.”

“I hate you…” Clay whispered, his breath short and shallow. His chest hitched as he struggled for air. “So much…”

“Yeah, sorry, pal,” Gibbons said. “I’m just trying to keep your spirits up as I figure a way out of this for us.”

Clay couldn’t answer. He fought to keep his eyes open, his lids heavy, his need to sleep overwhelming. But in the end, his body couldn’t hold on. The struggle for air was not a negotiation, it was an immutable law.

“Clay?” Gibbons called. “Clay! Wake up, pal! Come on, man, you cannot die yet! I’m close! So close!”

Clay’s head rolled on his neck in response, but he did not open his eyes.

“Clay! Dammit! Wake the hell up!” Gibbons yelled.

He boosted the volume in Clay’s com, creating a high-pitched whine of feedback that should have jolted a coma victim awake. Clay only sighed, his chest deflating, deflating, deflating. But not inflating.

“No!” Gibbons cried.

He tried to get the mech under control, to swim it over to the side of the impossibly deep river, but the current was too strong. He even fired the stabilizing booster engines in his legs, something only to be used in emergency free falls, but all the engines managed to do was boil the water around them, destroying visibility.

Not that there was much to see. The view outside the cockpit was mostly drowned bison and submerged detritus that streamed past the mech. Thousands of dead animals bumped and banged into each other, their brown eyes wide with the fear of their last, living thoughts. Their mouths hung open, tongues lolling in the watery grave, powerful teeth destined to never chew another bite of prairie grass.

“Okay, think,” Gibbons admonished himself. It was a human affectation since his processing power meant he had several trillion thoughts in the time it took for him to utter the useless phrase. “THINK!”

An idea hit him. It was not a good idea, but it was an idea.

The mech was equipped with flamethrowers. They utilized a mix of gasses, since biodiesel fuel was too precious to waste despite the abundance of hemp crops on the continent. If he could divert the oxygen mixture from the torches, he could at least give Clay a few more minutes.

But Gibbons was an AI, not a fully articulated robot. He could pilot the mech, control a fifty-foot battle machine, but he couldn’t manage any intricate manipulations. Not the kind needed to detach the oxygen tanks from the flamethrower system and hook them to life support.

Unless…

“This is a bad idea,” Gibbons said as he managed to reach one giant mech hand over to the opposite forearm and pop open a hatch.

It was a struggle, but Gibbons got one of the tanks free. It hissed out oxygen as he brought it up close to the cockpit. He knew the weak points in the enclosure and he took aim. Then he slammed the hissing end of the tank straight through the plastiglass in the bottom right corner of the cockpit hatch.

Oxygen streamed into the cockpit. Along with as much water as could fit in the gaps between the tank and the plastiglass. It was a race between gas and liquid.

“Clay!” Gibbons yelled. “Clay! Wake up!”

Clay stirred as the pure oxygen reached first his lungs then his brain. His eyes blinked a few times and he groaned.

“Gibbons?” he croaked. “I’m…alive.”

“Not for long, pal,” Gibbons said. “Take some very, very deep breaths, alright? I need you to fill your lungs and body with as much oxygen as you can.”

“Sounds…like a…plan,” Clay whispered and struggled to give a thumbs up.

“Deep breaths,” Gibbons coached as Clay forced himself to fill his lungs. “That’s it, deep breaths. More. Keep going.”

“Phew,” Clay said. “I feel funky.”

“It’s pure oxygen,” Gibbons said. “Humans aren’t designed to breathe pure oxygen for long. But it’s better than dying.”

“Hey, Gibbons?” Clay asked as he rolled his head about and looked at the cockpit hatch. “Is that water? Is water coming in?”

“Yes,” Gibbons said. “Sorry. But it’s not a bad thing.”

“Are you shitting me?” Clay growled.

“Okay, it’s a bad thing,” Gibbons admitted. “But it’s what’s going to save your life.”

“Water filling the cockpit is going to save my life?” Clay asked. “I thought that’s what the oxygen was for?”

“No, like I said, humans aren’t designed to breathe pure oxygen,” Gibbons said. “Not long term. I just needed your brain to have plenty circulating through it before I do what I really need to do.”

“What’s that, buddy?” Clay asked. “What do you really need to do?”

“Drown you,” Gibbons said.

“You what?” Clay barked. “Have you lost your AI mind?”

“Nope, it’s right where I left it,” Gibbons chuckled. Clay did not. “Sorry. I’m a little nervous.”

“You’re nervous?” Clay yelled then began to cough. “Ow. My throat.”

“Yeah, that means it’s time,” Gibbons said. “Hey, Clay?”

“Screw you,” Clay said.

“I’m going to get you out of this,” Gibbons said. “It’s late October, so the water is cold enough. Doing this will buy us about twenty minutes. After that, I don’t think I can revive you.”

“Screw you,” Clay replied.

“Yes, well, I know you’re mad, but I can’t figure out any other way,” Gibbons said. “Twenty minutes more time to pull us out of this river. It’s that or you asphyxiate.”

“Which is different than drowning how?” Clay snapped.

“Your brain will still have oxygen when you drown,” Gibbons said. “If I let you asphyxiate, then your brain will use up all the oxygen before you die. Drowning equals dying first. It’s a race.”

“Screw you,” Clay muttered.

“Sorry,” Gibbons replied and plucked the oxygen free from the cockpit hatch.

Water poured into the cockpit, filling the space rapidly.

“This sucks! This sucks! This sucks!” Clay yelled.

“Stop it!” Gibbons yelled back. “You’re using oxygen! Breathe normally until the water reaches your head! Do not hold your breath and use up your oxygen! Gulp the water down as fast as possible and let it fill your lungs! I promise I’ll bring you back, Clay! You hear me, pal? I promise!”

Clay growled, but didn’t yell the long list of expletives that hovered on the tip of his tongue.

The water rose fast. It was an easy thing to do since the mech was tumbling head over heels down the huge river. There was no real up or down, just space to fill. It took less than a minute before Clay’s face became submerged.

He fought for only a second then opened his mouth wide and exhaled the air his lungs held. He inhaled, panicked, thrashed, tried to scream, then slowly went limp, his mouth gulping at non-existent air once, twice, three times before he went completely still.

Gibbons had formulated a plan. So while Clay drowned, the AI had been busy gathering as many dead bison into the mech’s arms as possible. A dozen then fifty then a hundred corpses were pressed to the mech’s chest. Several bison corpses got free and continued their journey under the river’s surface, but not enough to thwart Gibbons’ intentions.

The corpses were huge, and Gibbons had easily grabbed enough, so that the mech slowly began to rise, the gasses inside the dead animals buoying them towards the surface. But the mech weighed a hundred tons on a dry day. Many of the non-water tight storage compartments distributed throughout the mech’s body had already filled to capacity. His plan was not working.

“Come on you stupid corpses!” Gibbons shouted. “Float, dammit!”

They did not float. They just added to the mass that held the mech below the surface.

“Crap,” Gibbons sighed. “This sucks. Clay is going to kill me for killing him.”

Then the mech came to a sudden, jarring halt. Thousands of bison corpses began to pile up against it, pinning it to whatever had stopped its momentum.

“What the hell?” Gibbons muttered as he checked the scanner readings.

A wall. The mech was pressed against a huge concrete wall. Along with a couple hundred thousand bison. In seconds, the mech was covered in dead animals, not a single centimeter of its structure visible.

“Sorry, Clay,” Gibbons whispered. “So sorry.”

Four

The pain was excruciating. Both from the electricity that coursed through his body and from the expulsion of the immense quantity of water in his lungs. Clay puked and moaned, puked and moaned, then held up a hand.

“Stop,” he croaked. “Gibbons. Stop.”

“Alive!” Gibbons crowed. “You’re alive! Holy shit, I did it!”

“I’m alive,” Clay said and twirled a finger in the air. “Yay. And ow.”

“Sorry for the jolts,” Gibbons said. “I can’t perform CPR, so I shorted the controls in your pilot’s seat in hopes the shocks would start your heart back up.”

“It worked,” Clay gasped.

He lay in the pilot’s seat, his body limp and weak. He was freezing and didn’t even have the energy to shiver for warmth.

“Heat,” Clay whispered.

“Sorry, pal, but the heater is shot,” Gibbons said. “It’s going to take both of us a long while to fix it.”

“Wonderful,” Clay sighed. He blinked a few times, then stared at the cracked cockpit hatch as his eyes started to regain focus. “Gibbons? What the hell is going on?”

“We’re stuck,” Gibbons said.

“I figured that,” Clay said. “Where?”

“My guess is we hit a set of locks,” Gibbons said. “But sensors, scanners, and pretty much all external vid devices are crap. I’m working on rerouting systems now so I can get more information. But for the moment, all I can tell you is we are buried under a few hundred tons of dead bison.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Clay said. He grimaced. “And smell it. Damn, that’s rank.”

A shiver finally came, but not to warm his body, it was out of disgust for the fluids that were leaking from the corpses and through the cracked cockpit hatch. Blood, urine, feces. It all came dripping into the cockpit. Luckily, the angle kept the fluids from hitting Clay directly. Which was of small comfort.

“How long was I dead?” Clay asked.

“Fifteen minutes,” Gibbons replied. “I wasn’t sure I could revive you.”

“You’d said I had twenty minutes?” Clay snapped. Or tried to. He didn’t have the energy to give a proper snap. “Gibbons? Did you lie to me?”

“Lie to you, pal? Nah,” Gibbons said.

“Ass,” Clay responded.

“There are many cases where humans have been revived after twenty minutes or more,” Gibbons said. “So, I didn’t lie. I just held back the fact that the numbers are very, very low and most die after only a few minutes.”

“I can’t believe you played me,” Clay said. “We’re talking death here, buddy. That’s not something we flesh and bone folks like to be toyed with.”

“Are you alive?” Gibbons asked.

“Yeah, I’m alive,” Clay answered.

“Then shut your meat hole, pal,” Gibbons said. “Unless you want to say thank you.”

Clay sat there, in silent thought.

“Oh, come on!” Gibbons shouted.

“Thanks, Gibbons,” Clay said finally. “I appreciate that you saved my life. Even though you did kill me first.”

“The water killed you,” Gibbons said. “I did not.”

“Splitting hairs,” Clay said.

Gibbons started to respond, but went quiet as the pile of bison they were buried under started to shift.

“Can you stand?” Gibbons asked.

“Are you kidding me?” Clay laughed. “I can barely blink. I was dead for fifteen minutes, you know.”

“As I am sure you will remind me for the rest of your life,” Gibbons said.

The pile shifted again, and the mech shook slightly. Clay felt the machine shift underneath him.

“We aren’t stable, are we?” Clay asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Gibbons said. “We are sandwiched between corpses. There are as many under us as are on us.”

“You said something about locks? What locks? Are we against a door?” Clay asked.

“No, locks like with a dam,” Gibbons replied. “This river is man-made. It’s entirely concrete, and we have hit the end. The water was drained through the locks. I believe the river still flows underneath and around us, but I am not sure.”

“Huh,” Clay said.

“That’s all? Huh?” Gibbons responded.

“What else am I going to say?” Clay asked. “I just came back to life. Concrete river locks are underwhelming after that experience.”

The bison corpses continued to shake and shift. Slowly, glimpses of light began to peek through the bodies. Then a huge chunk of the pile of death was removed as a thick metal crane claw clamped around the corpses and lifted them up off the mech’s cockpit. Clay shielded his eyes as muted sunlight slammed into his brain.

“Oh, man, I’m going to need some aspirin,” Clay said. “And at least two barrels of hooch. I don’t care what kind as long as it numbs everything.”

“I have minimal functions,” Gibbons said. “From what I can see, that’s a Vernacht construction mech claw. I couldn’t say the exact model. Unless it’s only a salvaged part on a different machine.”

“Out here, it could be anything,” Clay said. “These prairies ain’t exactly a wasteland, but they are damn close. Who knows what the locals have cobbled together.”

From far above, faint and barely audible, Clay could hear shouting. He squinted into the sunlight, but the top edge of the riverbank, if that’s what it could be called, was too far off to see anything clearly.

“Company,” Clay said.

“I had surmised as much since Vernacht construction mechs do not operate themselves,” Gibbons said.

“Where’s my pistol?” Clay asked. He hunted around by the pilot’s seat and saw a strip of leather belt sticking out from underneath. “There we go.”

He tried not to grunt in pain too much as he reached down for the belt. Clay managed to get it free from under the pilot’s seat, but as he lifted it up, he realized it didn’t make much difference. Water poured out of the barrel and cylinder as he plopped the weapon into his lap.

“The cartridges are probably crap,” Clay said. “I’ve never been a good enough munitions tech to make them perfectly sealed. Good enough so they kill and don’t explode in my face, but not water tight.”

“Perhaps the cartridges are ones you did not make,” Gibbons said.

“Nope,” Clay said. “I fired all of those back before we hit the NorthAm border, remember?”

“I wasn’t sure what batch you had used,” Gibbons said.

“Any chance we have ammo in a sealed compartment?” Clay asked.

“A very good chance,” Gibbons said. “At least for your revolver. Check the fourth cabinet from the left.”

“Which left? My left or your left?” Clay asked.

“I don’t have a left, Clay,” Gibbons replied. “Use your brain.”

“My previously dead brain that was starved for oxygen?” Clay grumbled.

“That excuse is getting old,” Gibbons said. “You died. Boo hoo. Move on.”

“You and me are going to have some words when this is all done,” Clay said.

“We are having words now, but I applaud your optimism, pal,” Gibbons said. “I’m glad you think whatever we have gotten into will eventually be over at some point.”

“It always is,” Clay said and pushed down on the pilot’s seat’s armrests.

He tried to stand to move over to the cabinet Gibbons had indicated, but his legs were jelly, and he was lucky he didn’t fall flat on his face considering the strange angle the mech was at. Yet Clay didn’t give up. He half-stumbled, half-crawled his way to the cabinet, pressed his palm flat against it, and popped it open. About ten liters of water came rushing out at him.

“Nice,” Clay sighed. He almost gave up and turned back to the pilot’s seat, but stopped and smiled inside. “Yes. Very nice.”

Inside the cabinet were three cartons, completely sealed, of .45 ammunition, about three hundred rounds in all.

“Damn, I don’t remember making all of these,” Clay said as he pulled out one of the cartons, popped it open, and nearly wept at the sight of the dry cartridges inside. “I must have been really bored at some point.”

“That would sound about right,” Gibbons said.

Clay opened the cylinder of his pistol and let the wet cartridges fall out. He blew in each chamber, forcing as much water out as he could. That was the best he could do. He reloaded with the dry cartridges, flipped the cylinder back in place, gave it a twirl, which sent water droplets flying everywhere, then looked towards the cockpit hatch and the mech claw that was coming down at them.

“Nothing you can tell me about what’s waiting for us up there?” Clay asked.

“Like I said, Clay, functionality is minimal,” Gibbons said. “Power cells have enough to keep me going for a while, but that’s the only good news. There is too much damage for me to get any accurate readings. Your eyes and ears are probably more reliable than my sensors and scanners right now.”

Clay stumbled back into the pilot’s seat and strapped in as the mech lurched. The huge claw collided with the cockpit, its massive metal fingers wrapping around the back of the mech. Not the most adept grip, which made Clay wonder who was piloting the mech above. Not a seasoned mech pro, more likely a simple laborer that got to the controls first.

With a heavy jolt, the mech was lifted up hard enough that the back of Clay’s skull slammed against the headrest of his seat. He saw stars briefly and winced as new pain joined old pain. But he shook it off, spun his cylinder one more time, and rested his pistol in his lap as he waited to meet those above.

When the mech was clear of the concrete sides, Clay gasped. He was struck dumb at the sight before him.

“Wasn’t expecting that,” Clay said.

“You and me both, pal,” Gibbons said

Five

Clay’s mech was set down in a tangled heap of huge metal arms and legs. All he could do was stare out the cockpit at the landscape. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before. He heard of the practice, but never thought he’d ever witness it.

“Are they a tribe? What are they?” Clay asked as he blinked a couple times. “Settlers? How many are there?”

“I count over four hundred people,” Gibbons said. “A mix of young and old, male and female. I could not say they are any specific tribe since they do not seem to share any distinctive dress or markings. I would say that we have stumbled upon some prairie community that is carrying out their annual bison harvest before the harsh winter sets in.”

For at least a kilometer, there were nothing but piles of dead bison. Some piles were of the dripping wet corpses that had just been plucked from the concrete riverbed, others were of animals completely void of their hides, skinned bodies that were striated with reds and pinks and fatty whites. Many more piles were of only the stripped hides that people walked back and forth from as they took a hide and staked it out in the cloud-filtered sunlight, letting it dry off from not just the river water, but the blood and fluids of the animals it had come from.

Clay was so engrossed with the bloody industry that he didn’t notice the noise of someone grunting and swearing from just outside the mech. It wasn’t until a brave soul had climbed up to the cockpit and began rapping against the cracked hatch with an old-looking carbine that Clay snapped back to the predicament at hand.

“You!” the man with the carbine shouted. “Stand up and show me your hands!”

“You can see my hands right here,” Clay replied, nodding down at his lap where they rested, one gripping his revolver. “How about you tell me what’s going on before you start barking orders?”

The man glared then forced the cockpit hatch up and open. Clay only waited. He didn’t have the strength to physically stop the guy.

“Put the pistol on the floor,” the man ordered.

“What did I just say about barking orders?” Clay snapped. “Tell me what I’ve fallen into first and then we can be the bestest of friends.”

The man whipped the barrel of the carbine towards Clay, but Clay was faster. He had his pistol up and the hammer back before the man could get the butt of his carbine to his shoulder. Clay chuckled under his breath. The guy was an idiot. If he fired the carbine, the recoil would send him tumbling back from the mech. Even though the mech wasn’t up on its feet, it was still a good few meters of a fall.

Someone shouted from down below, out of Clay’s sight.

“He’s got a six shooter,” the man with the carbine responded.

There was another unintelligible shout.

“Yeah, it’s pointed at me,” the carbine man said. “But I’m willing to bet those cartridges are wet and useless.”

“You really want to place that bet?” Clay asked. “Because there is only one way to know for sure.”

“What?” the carbine man asked.

“I said, do you really want to—?” Clay began.

“Not you,” the carbine man snarled. “Shut up. What was that, Holcomb?”

The carbine man listened for a second then shook his head.

“I do that and he’ll shoot me,” the carbine man shouted to the voice below.

“I’m only gonna shoot you if you keep pointing that carbine at me,” Clay said. “You aim that weapon somewhere else, and I’ll aim mine somewhere else. Then we can get back to you telling me what’s going on.”

“I ain’t telling you nothing, stranger,” the carbine man said. “Holcomb can decide if you’re fit to know jack squat.”

“I already know jack squat,” Clay said. “But maybe this Holcomb guy can fix that.”

Another shout below.

“Fine!” the carbine man shouted back. Then he slowly shifted the carbine so it was aimed off to the side. “You satisfied?”

“Maybe relax up on the grip just a hair, pardner,” Clay said. “You’re looking a bit twitchy. I’d hate for that to, uh, accidentally go off when I ease my hammer down.”

The carbine man hesitated for a long time then finally relaxed, letting the barrel of the carbine droop enough that Clay was satisfied he could fire first if the man changed his mind. Clay eased the hammer into place with his thumb then set the revolver to rest back in his lap. He raised his eyebrows and waited.

“What?” the carbine man asked. “I told ya that Holcomb would answer your questions.” He shifted and moved to climb back down. “You want answers? Then get up off your ass and follow me.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Clay said. “I’ll be right there.”

The carbine man paused and studied Clay.

“You don’t look so good, stranger,” he said. “Maybe you need some help getting out of that seat and out of this mech. Maybe you ain’t really much of a threat after all.”

The carbine twitched. There was more shouting from below.

“Okay! Shut the hell up, Holcomb! I’m coming down!” The carbine man gave Clay one last look then was lost from sight.

“Thoughts?” Clay asked quietly.

“A dozen men and women, all armed,” Gibbons said, his voice coming from the com in Clay’s ear so that half of the conversation was only between them. “No real organization to the group. If they have any combat training, they sure aren’t showing it. My guess is we’re looking at homesteaders.”

“Homesteaders? Where the hell are we?” Clay asked.

“We’re in the Midlands,” Gibbons said. “Neutral territory. These folks could be from NorthAm, Northeast MexiCali, maybe even Cascadia. Hell, Clay, they could have come up from the Brazilian Empire, for all we know. No way to tell where any of them are from until you talk to them.”

“Midlands, right,” Clay said. “The great melting pot of refugees and misfits in a nightmare landscape where luck just means you live another day. I’m familiar with the Midlands’ reputation.”

“You should feel right at home,” Gibbons said.

“Hardy har har,” Clay replied.

“I will say that there is a similarity among them,” Gibbons said. “I have limited processing power at the moment, but I’ll keep looking into it.”

“What kind of similarities?” Clay asked.

“Pallor, for one,” Gibbons aid. “Did you notice the skin tone of the man that was just up here? Pale and not quite healthy looking.”

“I’d chalk that up to life in the Midlands,” Clay said. “These prairies are perpetually covered by clouds. My pallor would be just as pale if I was forced to live out here.”

“You talking to yourself, mister?” a man asked as he appeared at the edge of the cockpit. “That’s never a good sign out in these parts.”

He was older, but not aged. Perhaps in his early to mid-fifties. His head was a tangle of curly grey hair with a wild beard to match. The man’s eyes were almost as grey as the hair and sky that loomed over everything. But his lips held a friendly smirk and his hands were empty of any weapons, so Clay gave him a quick smile and a nod.

“Bad habit from traveling alone,” Clay said. “Sometimes I even talk back to myself, but not often. I’m a horrible conversationalist.”

“Are you now?” the man asked as he hooked a leg over the edge of the cockpit and hoisted himself inside. He stayed there, his butt set on the lip of the cockpit hatch while his eyes looked Clay up and down. “Are your conversation skills good enough to tell me your name?”

“You first,” Clay said.

“Okay,” the man said. “They call me Holcomb around here.”

“Do they? What do you call yourself?” Clay asked.

“Holcomb,” Holcomb responded. “Ain’t the name I was born with, but it’s the one I’ve had going on three decades now.”

“That brings up all sorts of questions,” Clay said. “But how about we start with where around here is exactly?”

Holcomb only smiled.

“Right, of course,” Clay said and chuckled. “Clay MacAulay. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Holcomb.”

“Just Holcomb,” Holcomb responded.

Neither man made to shake hands.

“And we are where?” Clay asked.

“The Midlands,” Holcomb answered. “Perdition Plains, to be exact.”

“Perdition Plains,” Clay said. “Never heard of it.”

“No reason you should have,” Holcomb said. “We’re a small community. Keep to ourselves. Just a bunch of folks looking for some peace from all the strife the territories cause. Can’t trust any of them, NorthAm or the MexiCalis.”

“I’ll agree with you there,” Clay said.

They watched each other for a few minutes before Holcomb clapped his hands together.

“How about we get you out of this cockpit and down around a campfire?” Holcomb asked. “I take it from my man Regan that you may not be able to handle the climb on your own.”

“I won’t exactly admit to the infirmity, but then it would be hard to deny if you asked me to get up and dance,” Clay said.

“Not to worry,” Holcomb said. “I think I can help.”

He moved from the edge of the cockpit to Clay, his hands up in a friendly gesture saying he meant no harm.

“Anything broken I need to know about before I help you out of your seat?” Holcomb asked.

“Not that I am aware of,” Clay said.

“Good to know,” Holcomb said and leaned over Clay. “Wrap your hands around the back of my neck. If you got any strength in your legs, then use it. I may be a man that labors everyday, but I ain’t as strong as I was when I was your age.”

Holcomb lifted, Clay pushed with his legs, and between them they managed to get Clay over to the edge of the cockpit. He looked out at the strange and bloody scene. Quite a few eyes were turned up to him, but the majority were busy on their work, completing tasks that made Clay’s stomach turn. He wasn’t squeamish, but it was an awful lot of blood. Enough to stain most of the flattened grasses a dark brownish red.

A loud whistle startled Clay, but Holcomb held him tight and kept him from tumbling out of the mech.

“Sorry about that,” Holcomb said. “Just calling for your ride.”

“All good,” Clay responded as he watched the Vernacht mech claw swing into view.

It dripped with bison fluids, but it had a clean enough center between the huge fingers for Clay to climb out onto that he didn’t feel the need to argue the sanitary issues that came to mind. Holcomb helped him get situated so he wouldn’t tumble from between the gaps as the claw was lowered to the ground.

“Thanks,” Clay said. “Much appreciated.”

“My pleasure, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb responded.

Clay was helped onto the blood-stained earth, and he tried to give the small crowd a confident smile. From their indifferent expressions, he either failed at the smile or they could care less how confident he was. Half of them kept their eyes on him while the other half drifted their gazes to his holstered revolver.

“I’m going to have to relieve you of your sidearm, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb said. “The right to bear arms here is earned. You can have it back once the folks in charge back in town are confident you present no threat to our little community.”

Clay didn’t offer the pistol, Holcomb didn’t make a move for it. They left it at that for the moment.

“Town?” Clay asked. He looked around, but besides the industry around him, there was nothing but grass for as far as he could see.

“Yes, a town,” Holcomb laughed. “What? You think we just plop down on the dirt and sleep in the open? This may be the Midlands, Mr. MacAulay, but we do have some semblance of civilization.”

“Sorry, no offense meant,” Clay said.

“None taken,” Holcomb said. “We don’t see many strangers traveling through. Most stick to the routes along the borders if they need to travel from one side of the continent to the other.” He squinted up into the ever-present cloud bank that stretched from horizon to horizon. “Not that I can blame them. I’d rather be looking at orange and red mesas than this constant grey.”

“Speaking of grey,” Clay said. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could get some for my mech, would you?” He turned his head and nodded at the giant Vernacht mech that loomed over his own battle mech behind them, its claw back to work fishing out handfuls of bison corpses from the concrete riverbed. “I assume you have some to keep that baby there operating.”

“Grey? No, we ain’t got no grey,” Holcomb said. His face shifted, looking slightly uneasy, then returned to its previously easygoing, friendly features.

“Really?” Clay asked, surprised. “I thought Vernachts only ran on grey. Mechs that size will drain a power cell faster than—”

“Might be able to get you hooked up with some geothermal and charge those power cells for ya, but that’s up to the folks in charge,” Holcomb interrupted, turning Clay away from the mech. “But we ain’t got no grey.”

“Folks in charge?” Clay asked. “Mayor? Town council? Knights of the roundtable?”

He laughed. No one else did.

As he did a quick study of the less than hospitable faces that surrounded him, Clay could see that Gibbons was right, their pallor wasn’t just from living in a land that didn’t see much direct sunlight. They were all pale and wan-looking. He figured if he stumbled upon one of them sleeping, he’d think he was seeing a corpse. Fitting considering the field of death that stretched around him.

“I think we may skip the campfire and take you straight to them,” Holcomb said as he started Clay walking again and steered him towards an ancient-looking roller a few meters away. “There’s a heater in the cab that should get you toasty. May not completely dry out those wet clothes before we arrive, but it’ll keep you from catching your death of cold. You’re lucky, Mr. MacAulay, the day is a mild one for these parts. Normally, we’d be fighting early snow squalls. It’s why we endeavored to complete a late-season harvest. Have to use the weather when you can around here.”

“I can only imagine,” Clay said.

They reached the roller, and Clay pulled up short. It was a good-sized transport with the classic eight-wheel arrangement, four on each side, but instead of being powered by a heavy engine in front, the roller was hitched to a team of creatures that were unlike any Clay had ever seen.

“I’ll explain along the way,” Holcomb said as he opened a rear door and helped Clay up into the roller. “Sit tight while I make sure my people have things in hand here before we leave. I have a good crew, but if anyone gets lazy and damages the locks, well, I wouldn’t want to be them.”

“Right,” Clay said. “Wouldn’t want to be them.”

He leaned forward so he could get a better look at what looked like a team of four creatures, six legs apiece, their bodies about the same size as a full grown bison. They were even built similarly, with muscled haunches and huge shoulders.

The only reason that Clay didn’t think they were bison right off was because they had no hides. No skin at all, just exposed muscle. That and all the metal that shown rusty red in the gloomy light of the day. Metal that was interlaced throughout the creatures’ musculature.

Clay had no idea how long he’d been staring when Holcomb appeared again, climbing up into the driver’s seat directly in front of Clay. The man grabbed a set of reins and gave them a snap. The roller jerked forward then eased into a steady pace as the bizarre creatures pulled it along a rutted path between the piles of dead bison and past the dozens and dozens of workers hurrying to get as much done before the sun set and the grey day turned to pitch black night.

Six

“Interesting, ain’t they?” Holcomb said over his shoulder to Clay. “The few travelers that we come across always end up about as slack-jawed as you when they first see them.”

Clay barely heard the words, but he knew he needed to respond.

“Yeah,” was all he could say.

“I am sure you can guess that at one point in their existence, they were happy bison, content with eating grass and popping out calves,” Holcomb said. “You can domesticate bison, if need be, but it ain’t easy, and they don’t take naturally to pulling rollers.”

“Why pull a roller at all?” Clay asked. “They have engines for a reason.”

“Resources is scarce,” Holcomb said. “We don’t exactly have an abundance of diesel fuel at our disposal. It made more sense to convert the rollers to heavy wagons, such as this one, and use a team of tweeners to pull them across the prairies.”

“Tweeners? That’s what you call them?” Clay asked. “Why, because they are between an animal and a machine?”

“You nailed it on the head the first try, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb chuckled. “Now, I’m no expert mechanic. I’m a skilled engineer, or I like to think I am, that handles the locks and maintains the pumps and flow of the Catchall River. Without the Catchall, we’d starve before a year passed by. Good thing there are enough bison in the Midlands to last us for generations. Hell, we could drive and catch two-thirds of the damn things and still have enough for all eternity, their numbers are so great.”

“Drive? Did you drive the herd to that river?” Clay said. “On purpose?”

“Well, yes on purpose,” Holcomb said. “We drive them into the water, the current takes them down to the locks, and once the containment area is full, we open the locks, drain out the water, and bring up our catch. Almost like fishing on the prairies, I say.”

“Except you drove my mech into the river with the bison,” Clay said. “You caught a fish of a different scale.”

“That we did,” Holcomb said. “Not our intention, I can assure you of that. Your mech took up a good amount of space in the containment area, so our catch will be a little lighter than usual. No thing, really. We should still have plenty of carcasses to get us through the winter. Shouldn’t have to do another drive until late spring when the plains is full of newborn calves.”

Holcomb smacked his lips and something about the sound made Clay shiver.

“Look at me babbling on,” Holcomb said, his head turned slightly so he could see Clay out of the corner of his eye. “I plumb forgot to turn on the heater for ya.”

Holcomb fiddled with some controls on the dashboard and soon a blast of hot air was rushing out of a vent at Clay’s feet. Clay wanted to ask a few more questions, but the cab of the roller became a toasty oasis in the bleak landscape within two minutes. It didn’t take long for his eyelids to start to droop and for sleep to sneak up on him.

“Just gonna rest my eyes a spell,” Clay said as he lay across the bench seat. “Just need a little rest.”

“I would think you do,” Holcomb said. “We got about an hour before we reach town.”

The man said a few more words, but Clay’s conscious mind didn’t catch any of them. He was out and snoring in seconds.

A gentle hand brought him around, and Clay instinctively went for his pistol, but his hand slapped at an empty holster.

“Got it right here, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb said as Clay’s eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright. “Careful now, calm yourself. I had a feeling you might be a touch disoriented, so I saved us both some trouble and relieved you of your weapon so no unfortunate accidents occurred. I did say before I was gonna have to relieve you of it.”

“Who? What?” Clay snapped, his head whipping one direction then the other.

The roller. He was in the roller wagon. A roller wagon pulled by a team of creatures.

Clay looked towards the front of the roller, but there was no sign of the creatures.

“They’re put up for the night,” Holcomb said. “I’m sure you can get a tour of the stables once you’re done speaking with the folks in charge.”

“Huh? Right, yeah, sure,” Clay said. He shook the sleep from his head which quickly produced a painful pounding in his skull. “The town council.”

“We don’t have a formal name for them,” Holcomb said. “No need. Everyone knows they’re in charge.” Holcomb eyed Clay. “You think you got enough sleep that your legs will hold you without me helping?”

Clay stretched his legs across the bench seat, feeling their strength.

“Yeah, I think so,” Clay responded.

“Good,” Holcomb said and moved out of the way so Clay could hop down out of the roller. “I need to tend to some quick business, if you don’t mind, so you’ll have to make your own way over to that building there.”

Holcomb pointed to a simple clapboard building, two story with a pitched roof, that stood at the far side of what looked like a town square.

“I already been in there to tell them who you are and that you’d be coming,” Holcomb said. “They’re eager to meet you. Like I said before, we don’t get many travelers through here. We sure as hell don’t get any mech pilots with a working mech.”

“Not sure how working it is at the moment,” Clay said. “About that…”

“I left word for no one to touch your machine, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb said. “It’ll be in the same condition you left it in.”

“Which isn’t so great,” Clay said. He nodded at the building across the square. “That one there?”

“That one there,” Holcomb replied. “Best not to delay. The folks in charge won’t like to be made to wait all evening for ya.”

“Wouldn’t want them to,” Clay said. He took a few steps, was confident his legs weren’t going to buckle, then gave Holcomb one last look. “I’ll see you soon.”

“You might,” Holcomb said. “But if not, then it was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. MacAulay.”

“Clay,” Clay said. “Call me Clay.”

That strange look clouded Holcomb’s features once more, but was gone in a blink.

“I was raised to be formal,” Holcomb said. “We’ll keep it to Mr. MacAulay for now.”

“Alright,” Clay responded cautiously. “I’d hate to argue against a proper, formal upbringing. Thank you, Holcomb, for the ride and the help.”

“My pleasure,” Holcomb said.

Then the man was striding towards a building in the opposite direction. It had a distinct look of a saloon, but with none of the bustle and energy that usually surrounded that type of establishment. Clay waited until Holcomb had stepped onto the porch and was lost from sight through a pair of double doors before he turned to regard his destination.

Clay was glad the town square wasn’t too big, because despite being able to walk under his own power, he was unsure how long that power would hold out. He felt beat. Just flat out beat. His body ached, his head ached, even his thoughts ached. He couldn’t wait to get the business with the folks in charge over with and hopefully be shown to a room with a soft bed where he could sleep for a week.

Hell, he’d take a hard bed, if that’s all there was.

After a few paces, it finally occurred to Clay that Holcomb had been serious about keeping his pistol. He thought about turning and going after the man, but as he hesitated, he noticed that he was being watched very closely by quite a few pairs of eyes. Behind dusty windows of the other buildings that lined the town square were pale faces. Men, women, some children, all carefully observing his progress across the packed dirt that made up the square.

By habit, he reached up to tip his hat, but realized that was gone as well. He couldn’t remember if he left the mech with it on his head or if it was still in the cockpit. The pistol would be a sad loss, but losing his hat would be devastating. It was irreplaceable.

Clay patted the pockets of his leather vest, shivering a little as a chill wind whipped through the square and tugged at his thick hemp shirt, and retrieved a pocket watch. He thumbed it open and the watch came to life, not with a small and big hand, but with a continual readout that streamed across its face.

“Gibbons?” he muttered, trying to keep his lips as still as possible so as not to look like he was talking. “You there?”

“Yes, Clay,” Gibbons said. “I’m here. I will say that one nice thing about being out on open prairies is there are no obstructions to get in the way of the coms.”

“How are you holding up?” Clay asked.

“I’m ready to tuck into the stealth decks, if needed,” Gibbons said. “Everyone is leaving the mech alone, but I’m not sure for how long that will last. How are you?”

“I’ve been worse,” Clay said. “About to have a meeting with the folks in charge.”

“Town council?” Gibbons asked.

“Apparently not,” Clay replied. “Just the folks in charge.”

“Interesting,” Gibbons said.

“If by that you mean weird and a little creepy, then sure,” Clay said. A door creaked, and a man in a bloody apron stepped out onto a porch, a scatter gun held loose by his side. “Listen, I gotta go. I think I’m freaking out the locals. A stranger talking to himself. We’ll chat more when I have some privacy.”

“Stay safe,” Gibbons said.

“You know I will,” Clay said as he reached his destination.

“I don’t know that at all,” Gibbons said. “That’s why I—”

Clay snapped the pocket watch closed, severing the long range coms, as he climbed the five steps to the building’s wide porch. The double doors in front of him had opened on their own and a voice inside called out, “Mr. MacAulay. Welcome to Perdition Plains. Come in.”

Clay took a deep breath then walked into the shadowed gloom of the building, the doors closing slowly behind him.

Seven

There was a smell.

That was the first thing Clay noticed as he stepped into the room and waited for his eyes to adjust. Not that they needed to adjust much considering the gloomy nature of the weather outside.

“Mr. MacAulay,” a reedy voice said. “Please. Sit.”

Clay’s nose twitched as he tried to identify the smell. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it wasn’t a fragrance he cared to savor either. He turned his head to look at the reedy-voiced man and nodded.

“Thank you kindly,” Clay said and took the seat offered to him.

It was a simple wood chair, as simple as the buildings that made up the town. Plain wood, no frills or adornments. Utilitarian in all aspects. Clay went to take his hat off then paused as he remembered his hat was missing. That was hard getting used to.

“Lost my hat,” he said as he received inquisitive looks.

The looks came from two men and two women. To say they were old would have been a gross understatement. They were downright ancient. They looked older than the land itself. Clay realized the smell was them. The odor of age and withering tissues, dry bones and brittle hair.

The reedy-voiced man was a contradiction. He was heavyset yet looked like he’d crack under his own weight if he stood up too quickly. Fleshy cadaver came to Clay’s mind as an apt description. The only hair on the man’s head were the thick tufts of white that stuck straight out of his ears as if he’d been using them as cheese caves and the mold had grown wild. His complexion was paler than any of the people Clay had seen yet. That could be said for all that watched him.

A woman seated next to the reedy-voiced man—all of them sat in the same plain wooden chairs as Clay—had hair down to her elbows. It wasn’t braided, pinned back, tucked up into a bun. It flowed down across her shoulders and upper arms like a shawl sprouting from her scalp. Purest of white, with interesting streaks of pitch black, the hair seemed to devour what little light the room held. Clay couldn’t help but stare at it, and it took a good deal of effort to tear his eyes away to regard the man seated to her left.

Unlike the first man, the second was truly cadaverously skinny. To Clay, it looked as if someone had painted the illusion of skin over bare bones. His cheeks were so sunken in that Clay was close to certain he had no cheeks and he was staring into the exposed maw of the old coot. But the eyes. They sparkled with a vitality that told Clay that calling the man an old coot to his face might not be the best choice.

To his left sat the second woman. Nondescript. That was all Clay could think of. Old like the others, but with grey hair up in a bun, head covered by a sheer scarf. Her fingertips drummed continually on the tops of her thighs, but they made not one bit of sound. Clay tried to make out her facial features, but her head was angled just right so that all he could see were poorly defined shadows. He didn’t know if she was smiling, frowning, staring at him, or possibly blind as a bat.

The room itself was a reflection of its furniture. Plain wood floorboards. A couple of plain wood desks with chairs behind them. A plain wood table, long enough to seat eight or ten, was shoved against a far wall. Clay’s guess was the room was ten meters by ten meters. A plain wood cabinet with a heavy lock was set into the far back corner. He started to look up at the rafters of the open ceiling, but the clearing of a throat brought his attention back to his hosts.

“What is your business in this region, sir?” the white-haired woman asked.

“I have none,” Clay replied. He smiled and coughed lightly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch any of your names.”

“I am Thaddeus Perdition,” the reedy-voiced man replied. “These are my siblings— Estelle, Thackeray, and Emily. We are the elders of this town.”

“The folks in charge,” Clay said.

“Yes, quite,” Thaddeus said. “I see our man Holcomb has provided some information. Can I inquire as to what else he has told you about our humble town?”

“Nothing,” Clay said. He squinted into the gloom and furrowed his brow. “Did I hear you say that you are all siblings? Like brothers and sisters?”

“That is correct,” Thaddeus answered. “Does that trouble you in some way?”

“Not at all,” Clay said. “Never did have much of a family myself, so I envy those with kin. But, I do have to say I’m not seeing much of a resemblance.”

“Genetics can be strange,” Thaddeus said.

“Yeah…they can be,” Clay said. He clapped his hands together and Estelle jumped slightly. Clay was almost certain she gave a slight hiss, not unlike a startled cat. “My apologies. So, what can I do for you fine folks today?”

“What makes you think you can do anything for us?” Thaddeus asked.

“Nothing,” Clay said. “Holcomb brought me into town and said I needed to speak with the folks in charge. Say, those tweeners sure are something. They remind me of a rumor I heard about. It was before my time, way, way before my time, during the Bloody Conflict. One side, I can’t rightly remember which, had begun to experiment with organic mechanics. That rhymes. Say it five times fast.”

Not even a twitch of a smile.

“Anyway, always thought of it as one of those crazy tales told to scare kids,” Clay continued. “Never thought I’d see any in the flesh. Or whatever they are.”

“We do not deal in rumors,” Thaddeus said.

“Good policy,” Clay said.

“You say you have no business with our town, yet here you sit,” Thaddeus said. “Why are you in the Midlands, Mr. MacAulay? A man with a mech can go anywhere on this continent. Outfitted properly and you could even leave the continent.”

“No desire to do that,” Clay said. “I’ve been off the continent and it is no picnic, believe me.”

“Then why are you here?” Thaddeus asked.

“I was passing through and got caught up in your bison wrangling,” Clay said. “If wrangling is the right word. More like a forced drive to the death.”

“Folks must eat,” Thaddeus said.

That got a twitch of a smile from the others. But the twitches were gone as soon as they arrived.

“I can’t argue with that logic,” Clay said. With perfect timing, his stomach rumbled. “Been a good while since I’ve had a hot meal myself. Salted meat and lukewarm water have kept me going. Although, I did find an orchard of crab apples about six kilometers shy of the NorthAm border. Bitter, but filling.”

The folks in charge said nothing.

“Say, you wouldn’t know why the NorthAm border forces are so jumpy, would you?” Clay continued. “They about chased me halfway across the land without so much as a how do you do.”

Clay was usually silent in strange situations, happy to let others talk and reveal information about themselves, but there was something so unsettling about the four elders that sat in front of him that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He was afraid that if he let silence fill the room, it would devour him. A silly fear, but one his gut kept screaming at him. So he talked.

“You know I have a mech,” Clay said. “It’s a little banged up after falling into your river. What was its name?”

“We would not know the name of your mech,” Thaddeus responded.

“No, the river,” Clay said. “I can’t remember what Holcomb called it.”

“Catchall River,” Thaddeus answered.

“Catchall River,” Clay said and laughed. It was weak and held zero mirth. “Certainly lives up to its name. It caught itself a battle mech today.”

“You died,” Estelle said.

Clay gave a quiet yelp then laughed again.

“Yep, I sure did,” Clay said. “Drowned in that river of yours. Got lucky and came to when Holcomb and his crew pulled my mech out of the locks.”

“You died. You came back,” Estelle said.

“Uh…yep,” Clay said and nodded. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“You must be exhausted,” Thaddeus said. “You should rest. Eat some food. Gather your strength. Consider yourself our guest. You will be shown to your room.”

“Oh, hey, that’s mighty hospitable of you, but I’d rather get back to my mech and start repairs,” Clay said. “Maybe in lieu of room and board, you fine folks in charge could provide me with some liters of grey so I can power up my mech and get out of your hair.”

“You should rest. Eat some food. Gather your strength. Consider yourself our guest. You will be shown to your room,” Thaddeus repeated right down to the exact inflection of his first statement. It was like a recording had been played again.

“Like I said, that is mighty—” Clay started then stopped as a figure removed itself from a dark corner. Clay had no idea the man had even been in the room. “Oh, howdy. They certainly don’t hold back your meals, do they?”

The figure, an immense man of over two meters tall with shoulders that looked like they’d have a hard time fitting through the building’s double doors, strode purposefully towards Clay. The ubiquitous pale skin was there, but in a strange patchwork pattern across the man’s face and neck. Clay swallowed hard as the man came to stop only half a meter from where Clay sat.

“Torsten will show you to your room,” Thaddeus said. “A meal will be sent up to you. Please wait there until we have conferred.”

Despite every instinct in his being telling him to stay put, Clay stood up, the backs of his legs scooting the chair, the feet making a horrible screeching noise on the plain wood floorboards. Torsten made no move towards him, but Clay could see by the length of the giant’s arms, he didn’t need to; Clay’s neck was only a short reach away.

“Hey, I appreciate the offer and all, but I’m going to leave now,” Clay said. “I’ll work out my predicament on my own.”

“You were caught,” Thaddeus said. “Your predicament is our predicament now. Torsten will show you to your room, and a meal will be sent up. Please wait there until we have conferred.”

“You ain’t gonna let that go, are you?” Clay asked.

Thaddeus did not respond.

Torsten lifted a huge arm and pointed at the doors.

“Right,” Clay said. He made to tip his hat again then sighed. “If y’all happen to see a hat around, let me know, will you? I’m missing mine.” He looked up at Torsten and winced at the scarred patchwork that made up the giant’s face. “Torsten, is it? Lead the way, big, uh, man.”

Torsten only continued to point.

“Or I’ll lead the way,” Clay said. “You keep pointing.” He gave a quick bow to the folks in charge. “A pleasure. Looking forward to hearing the results of your conference.”

With that, he turned on his boot heels and hurried as fast as he could out of the building without looking like he was running. Torsten was right behind him the whole way until they were outside and in the town square. Then the giant man did take the lead and walked with careful, deliberate steps to the building where Holcomb had entered earlier.

“I like your boots,” Clay said to Torsten as they crossed the square. “I’m not kidding. They look sturdy. Strong. I could use a new pair of boots. There wouldn’t happen to be a good cobbler in town, would there? I might need a milliner as well if I don’t retrieve my hat. You all have one of those? Maybe the same person?”

Torsten didn’t respond. Clay hadn’t expected him to.

When they reached the other building, Torsten stopped, turned to the side, and pointed at the double doors. Clay didn’t have to ask for clarification. He walked up the steps and across the porch to the double doors. He started to push one open then looked back over his shoulder. Torsten had taken up a spot directly in front of the porch’s steps. The man’s bulk filled up the entire space. No one was getting past him without issue.

“I’ll see you around, Torsten,” Clay said and nodded.

Then he pushed the door open and walked into his second building of Perdition Plains.

Eight

A saloon it was not.

Yes, there was a bar that took up one wall to the right as Clay walked in.

Yes, there were tables with chairs set about the place.

Yes, there was even a small stage and a player piano to the side of it which was lazily chirping some somber tune that Clay did not recognize.

Yes, there were a couple of men here and there, glasses of dark liquid at hand.

But to Clay, a saloon had life in it, even if that life was lowdown, mean, and despicable.

The place Clay walked into had no life. It matched the town of Perdition Plains perfectly.

Clay sidled up to the bar and caught the eye of the cadaverous barman.

“Beer?” Clay asked.

The barman simply stared.

“Okay, no beer,” Clay said. “Bourbon, or any whiskey you have will do.”

The barman continued to stare, a rag the color of the clouds outside set over his shoulder. He yanked it down and started to wipe the bar counter, his eyes still on Clay.

“I, uh, was just over talking with the folks in charge,” Clay said. “They sent me your way. I guess there is a room waiting for me? Possibly a meal?”

The barman grunted, replaced the rag on his shoulder, then moved out from behind the bar and walked to a steep staircase against the far wall. Clay waited to be invited to follow, when that didn’t happen, he quickly reached back behind the bar and grabbed the first bottle his hand found.

It was a murky liquid, thick and brownish red. He twirled the bottle and the liquid swirled about the glass, leaving a heavy film on the sides of the bottle before slowly settling. Clay grimaced and set the bottle back where he got it. He turned to the staircase, but the barman was already at the top and waiting on a narrow landing for Clay. If he’d been watching Clay’s interaction with the bottle, he showed no indication of it.

“Coming,” Clay said and hurried up the staircase. He made it about a quarter of the way up before he had to put one hand on the rail and the other on the wall. “Phew. Not even close to full strength. Maybe lying down for a spell and a bite to eat ain’t such a bad thing.”

The barman said nothing, only waited.

It took Clay a couple of attempts before he made it to the landing. The barman turned and led him past four doors to a fifth at the very end of the landing. He unlocked the door, moved aside, and waited for Clay to enter.

“Do I get one of those?” Clay asked, pointing his chin at the key the barman held.

There was no response.

Clay sighed and stepped into the room. The barman closed the door behind him, and Clay was not surprised to hear the key in the lock then the inevitable click of heavy tumblers falling into place.

The bed looked comfortable, at least. Tarnished brass frame with a thick comforter and a second folded and draped over the end railing. There was a plain wood chest of drawers with a wash basin and a large pitcher next to it. Clay smiled at the sight of the plain wood chair set in the corner next to a narrow window that didn’t appear to have any type of latch or way to open it.

He sat down on the bed, felt the inviting softness, and had to fight the urge to lie back and let sleep take him. Instead, he pulled the pocket watch from his vest and thumbed it open.

“Gibbons?” Clay called.

“Good, you’re alive,” Gibbons responded.

“You sound surprised,” Clay said.

“You never know,” Gibbons said. “Are you safe?”

“Not sure yet,” Clay said. “I’m currently locked in a room above the saddest saloon I’ve ever seen. I’ve had better times in graveyards. That is no joke, buddy.”

“Locked in a room? Are you a prisoner?” Gibbons asked.

“Not sure yet on that, either,” Clay said. “Had a short talk with the folks in charge. Learned zero about this place except that the folks in charge all have the last name Perdition.”

“Like the town?” Gibbons asked.

“Like the town,” Clay responded. “They are old as sin and apparently siblings. This creepy place is a family affair.”

“I assumed so,” Gibbons said. “My observations of the butcher crew has lead me to believe there might only be a handful of bloodlines around here. If that.”

“That fits what I’m seeing,” Clay said. “This place certainly ain’t normal. Some good old fashioned inbreeding would explain a lot.”

“What’s your plan, pal?” Gibbons asked. “Shoot your way out if things get worse?”

“Can’t, no pistol,” Clay said. “That Holcomb guy took it off me as I slept on the way here.”

Gibbons sighed.

“I know, I know, buddy,” Clay said. “But I’m pretty beat up. Even if I was awake, I’m not sure how much of a fight I would have been able to put up. I can barely fight the urge to curl up on this bed, let alone a person.”

“Any idea what they want with you?” Gibbons asked. “I am certain they want something. Probably has to do with the mech. This crew hasn’t stopped staring at it since you left. A couple of them came close enough to touch it, but didn’t quite commit.”

“The folks in charge are conferring,” Clay said. “That’s all they’ve told me. Do you have anything in the database about Perdition Plains in the Midlands? Or a homesteader family by the name of Perdition that may have come here a few decades ago?”

“A few decades?” Gibbons asked.

“Yeah, you should have seen these people,” Clay said. “Old as time and less forgiving. Only one of them spoke to me. No, wait, that’s not true. But mainly the guy named Thaddeus did the talking. Not that he said much.”

“My database has no information on a Perdition Plains or a family going by the name of Perdition,” Gibbons said. “But we both know my database is far from complete. Even if that weren’t the case, the Midlands has never been a well-documented region to begin with.”

“I figured as much,” Clay replied. “Thanks for trying. Have you finished diagnostics yet?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Gibbons said. “We’re screwed.”

“That bad?” Clay asked, closing his eyes against the answer.

“Worse,” Gibbons said. “The water has done some serious damage, Clay. I’m going to wait and see what dries out and what doesn’t before I make my final assessment, but as it looks right now, we aren’t going anywhere without a thorough overhaul of the power cell alternators. Even if I get that fixed, which I can’t do without your hands, we have no power to fill the cells. Any chance you’ve had a breakthrough there?”

“Not so far,” Clay said. “The folks in charge said the same thing Holcomb did. They don’t have any grey. I don’t believe that load of crap, but my beliefs aren’t going to power the mech.”

“The Midlands isn’t known for a wealth of geothermal,” Gibbons said. “I can’t even suggest rigging a solar charger. The weather here is about as monochromatic as the NorthAm army uniforms.”

“Solar wouldn’t get us far,” Clay said. “But it would get us away from here, at least. That might be our only option.”

“Once we fix the alternators,” Gibbons said. “Which means I need you to hunt down some parts and get your butt back here, pronto.”

“Okay, okay,” Clay said. “Let me talk to Holcomb. He seemed reasonable. But it might not be until the morning. I haven’t seen him since he dropped me off.” The sound of tumblers turning caught Clay’s. “Room service is here. I’ll call you back in a bit. I’m going to try to eat something and see if it gets my energy up. Maybe sleep some, if I can. This is a one eye open situation, that’s for damn sure.”

“Leave the coms on,” Gibbons said.

“It’ll drain the watch at this distance,” Clay said. “So far, I haven’t seen a damn bit of evidence of any tech in town.” Clay looked up at the single bulb that burned weakly above him. “They have electricity, but there aren’t any ports or outlets in any of the building’s I’ve seen.”

The door began to open.

“I’ll call you,” Clay said and snapped the watch closed.

He tucked it into his vest and sat on his hands as the barman brought in a tray of food and set it over on the dresser. Having completed that task, he turned and held out an open palm to Clay.

“Oh, sure, right,” Clay said, standing up and checking his pockets. He grimaced and gave the barman an apologetic look. “Sorry. I don’t have any coins or scrip on me. Can you just add the tip to my tab?”

The barman shook his head then pointed at Clay’s vest.

“What? You want my clothes?” Clay asked.

The barman moved faster than Clay would have guessed he could. His hand was in Clay’s vest pocket and plucking out the watch before Clay could barely react.

“Hey!” Clay shouted and grabbed the barman’s wrist.

He didn’t see the punch coming. It rocked his head to the aside, and Clay collapsed across the bed, dazed. He started to get back up, but the barman cocked back his fist and Clay stayed put. The barman looked down at the pocket watch, tried to open it, but when it didn’t yield to him, he only shrugged and tucked the watch in his own vest pocket.

He wagged a finger at Clay, turned and left, leaving Clay still sprawled across the bed. The tumblers fell into place, and Clay was locked in once again.

“Well, son of a bitch,” Clay said as he rubbed his jaw.

His eye caught sight of the tray of food, and he stood up on shaky legs, staggered his way to the dresser, and leaned against it as he stared down at what was on the plate.

A grey hunk of meat, what he assumed was bison, lay there. It was uncooked and gave off a smell that told Clay instantly it had gone off. The smell triggered a memory, and Clay jolted at the thought. The grey meat smelled just like the folks in charge. Smelled pretty much like everything in the town of Perdition Plains.

He picked up the bent and rusted fork he’d been provided and poked at the meat. Something squirmed just below the surface. Clay dropped the fork and took a couple steps back. When the squirming stopped, and Clay was sure he wasn’t going to throw up, he moved back to the dresser to inspect the one other piece of food provided.

There was a hunk of bread next to the meat, but it had begun to culture its own brand of penicillin. Clay would have eaten it anyway, not the first time he’d had to swallow moldy bread, but it lay in a pool of congealed liquid that seeped out of the meat. Bravely, Clay leaned forward and inspected the liquid. It bore a disgusting resemblance to what had been in the bottle of liquor he’d tried to boost downstairs.

“Sweet bloody hell on a cracker,” he muttered as he turned away from the dresser and made his way back to the bed.

There had been a pitcher on the tray, as well, but Clay’s culinary bravery had ebbed, and he just couldn’t bring himself to pour a glass of whatever was in there. Instead, he fell back on the bed, closed his eyes, and decided the best sustenance would be some sleep.

He had no idea how long he’d been asleep when he came awake with a jolt. Once again, he slapped at his empty holster, and swore as he found the familiar weight of his .45 still gone. The knife was there, so he drew that as he painfully got to his feet. He had no idea why he’d come awake, but he’d learned from years of experience, and survival, not to ignore the instinct.

The answer came in the form of a scream from outside. A man’s scream. Agonizing and full of pure terror.

Clay moved to the narrow window and looked down on the town square. All he could see was his own reflection. He cursed his idiocy and hobbled over to the light switch on the wall by the locked door. He flicked it off and returned to the window, placing his knife back in its sheath.

Another scream. Then another. Two voices. Both in excruciating pain.

Clay looked down at the square again, but there were no lights on outside. He could barely make out a huddled mass of shapes in the middle of the square. No definition, no way to tell how many were down there, or who was screaming and who was causing the screams.

There was a shout, and Clay tried to find the direction it came from, but without illumination of any kind, not even a torch or hemp oil lantern, Clay was blind. The perpetual clouds kept the stars or moon from helping.

The shout came again, and it looked like the huddled mass may have split apart as what Clay thought might have been a person walked towards it. Clay waited, tried to watch, but mostly kept his ears open.

Another scream cried out, but was quickly cut short in the unmistakable choked gurgle of a slit throat. Clay flinched and forced himself not to take a step back from the window. The second person didn’t scream again. Clay had no idea what that meant, but he was sure it wasn’t good.

The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up, and that was when Clay retreated from the window. He had no idea if they saw him watching or not, but his gut said his observations hadn’t gone unnoticed. Before returning to bed, he dragged the plain wood chair over to the door and tucked it up under the handle. It wouldn’t stop anyone from getting in if they really wanted to, especially if Torsten came a knocking, but it would make enough of a noise to rouse Clay if he fell back asleep.

Clay sat on the bed, his back against the headboard and his knees tucked up to his chest. He tried to make sense of the past few days. The NorthAm border patrol chasing him off without even a warning or explanation. The flight across the plains. The bison herd, the Catchall River.

The old woman, Estelle, was right, he had died and come back. Clay mused on that for a long while until his lids began to droop. He stretched out, his boots still on since there was no way he was going to be caught without them in the middle of the night. He’d almost dozed off again when he heard soft footfalls out on the landing.

“What now?” he whispered to himself, drawing his knife for the second time that night.

Clay wondered why the barman had taken his watch, but left him with the knife. That seemed odd. Why not take both? Removing a prisoner’s means of communication was a good idea, but leaving him with a weapon? Didn’t make sense.

The footfalls stopped outside Clay’s door. He expected they would.

He waited in the pitch black. There was no light coming from under the door, so whoever the person was, they’d traversed the narrow landing blind. Clay waited. After several minutes, Clay heard a slight rustling then the footfalls retreated, and Clay knew he was alone in the night once more.

He let some cautious time go by before he walked over to the door. Suspecting what he’d find, Clay knelt and felt about on the floor until his hand touched a scrap of paper. It was too dark to read, and there was no way in hell Clay was turning the light on, so he put the paper in his trousers pocket and went back to the bed.

He climbed in, his back against the headboard and knees tucked up against his chest once more, and waited for daylight. Clay was wide awake and despite his utter exhaustion, sleep was not happening that night.

Nine

The second there was even close to enough dawn light, Clay took the paper from his pocket and squinted hard until he could make out the words.

“I will need your assistance. If you could be so kind as to not die anytime soon, that would be appreciated. Cooperate. Remain humble. Stay patient. I will fetch you when I can.”

“Great,” Clay mumbled. “More insanity.”

He crumpled the paper and was about to throw it across the room when he paused, flattened it, folded it into a tiny square instead and placed it into a small slit inside his right boot. It seemed like a better idea than throwing it away and risking the barman discovering it. Clay had no clue as to what the note meant, other than what was printed on it, in a rather educated hand, but he was fairly certain that if it was discovered, his life would get uncomfortable fast.

More uncomfortable than it already was.

Clay stood and stretched, his muscles and limbs stiff with fatigue. His brain was sleep deprived and starved of nutrients, so he had a hard time thinking about what his next move should be. Other than the need to relieve himself. He knelt and looked for a chamber pot under the bed, since he obviously didn’t have immediate access to any bathroom facilities.

No chamber pot.

“Great,” Clay said as his bladder began to protest.

He hadn’t been allowed to leave the room since before sundown the previous evening. That was becoming a problem. Clay took a deep breath, hoping that would help, but it didn’t. What it did do was remind him that there was a hunk of spoiled meat sitting on the dresser. Along with a pitcher of yuck.

“You make do,” Clay said as he hurried over to the pitcher.

He avoided looking at the meat directly, but he thought he caught sight of a good deal more squirming out of the corner of his eye as he grabbed the pitcher. He poured what was inside onto the floor, a feeling of satisfaction at the small bit of defiance, then unzipped and took care of business.

He wasn’t sure what was louder, the sound of his stream hitting the side of the pitcher, or the satisfied sigh he let out as his bladder returned to a normal state of background anonymity. When he was done, he looked at the pitcher, looked about the room, shrugged, and returned it to the tray. He zipped up, poured some of the water from the other pitcher that sat by the wash basin, rinsed his hands, dried them on his shirt since no towel was provided, then went back to the bed and sat his ass down to wait.

Wait he did.

The sun had fully risen before he heard evidence that someone was downstairs. It took just as long before footsteps approached the door and the tumblers made themselves known yet again.

The door opened, and the barman held it wide, never looking at Clay. Clay didn’t need an interpreter and left the room that smelled of rotten meat and his own piss as fast as his tired legs could take him. He glanced over the landing’s railing and saw no one down in the not-saloon. Clay glanced at the stairs, back at the barman, and waited for the walking cadaver to nod before he proceeded to the steps and made his way down to the main floor.

There was a plate of food and a glass of what might have been water set on one of the tables. The barman moved past Clay and nodded at the table then took his place behind the bar. Clay stared at yet another plate of grey meat and moldy bread. He sighed and took a seat at the table. He picked up the glass, sniffed it, detected the distinct odor of rust, and set the glass back down. He sighed again.

“You wouldn’t happen to have some coffee, would ya?” Clay asked as he looked over his shoulder at the barman. The barman only stared back at him, the rag firmly in place on his shoulder. “Didn’t think so.”

Clay pushed the plate of spoiled food away and relaxed in the chair. As much as one could relax in a plain wood chair that was built for function only and not comfort. He waited. It was all he could do.

The day brightened outside and soon a few customers came into the not-saloon. Clay studied them, but they all pretty much looked the same. Pale as a ghost skin, slumped shoulders, dead eyes. Not one glanced his direction. They simply found seats at the empty tables and waited for the barman to serve them, which the barman did, pouring them all drinks from bottles of the mystery liquid.

Clay wasn’t sure if it was the meat in front of him or the drinks being poured, more than likely it was the patrons, but the smell in the not-saloon grew unpleasant fast.

“Your town stinks,” Clay said, unable to stay silent any longer. “Y’all might want to invest in something to mitigate that. Has to be hard on tourism.”

Not a head moved to look at him. There wasn’t even a twitch or tilt to indicate any of the people had even heard him speak.

“Screw this,” Clay snapped and stood up.

Every single one of the patrons stood up as well. Clay froze. They still didn’t look at him, their attentions firmly on their glasses of funk, but their bodies were tensed with an energy Clay knew all too well. Impending violence.

Clay sat back down. The patrons sat back down.

Clay stood up. The patrons stood up. A couple of them hissed, but none looked in his direction.

A tapping from the bar got Clay’s attention, and he looked over to see the barman wagging a finger at him.

“Can I have my watch back?” Clay asked the man.

He was answered with the continual wagging of that finger. Clay seriously considered drawing his knife, marching over there, and cutting that finger right off. Instead, he flipped the barman off and sat back down.

The patrons sat down as well.

Clay kicked his boots up onto the table, his fingers tracing the outline of his knife’s handle, as he waited. And waited. And waited.

He had no idea how much time went by, since he fell into a strange half-sleep, but eventually boots clomped from outside on the porch and Holcomb came rushing inside. The man stood just inside the doors for a second, probably to let his eyes adjust, then nodded and hurried over to Clay’s table.

“The folks in charge would like to see you,” Holcomb said.

“They had you fetch me?” Clay asked. He kept his boots up on the table, making no sign he was going to get up anytime soon. “Aren’t you needed out by the locks?”

“They have decided we have a relationship,” Holcomb said. “Somehow, you’ve become my new responsibility.”

“Sorry about that,” Clay said. He truly was. He liked Holcomb. “How’s my mech?”

“It’s where you left it,” Holcomb said.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Clay said. “You haven’t let no one mess with it, have you?”

“There’s been some curiosity,” Holcomb said, “maybe a little exploring, but no additional harm has come to your mech.”

“Any chance I can get some grey?” Clay asked.

“We don’t have any grey,” Holcomb replied quickly. He glanced over at the barman, who was engrossed in the singular activity of staring them both down. “But we may be able to figure something out to get those power cells working again. You already know your alternators are the problem, so this won’t be an easy fix.”

Clay’s boots hit the floor and he stood up fast. Too fast. His head spun, but he maintained his footing and tried to act like he wasn’t half a second from passing out. None of the patrons stood that time, but the barman did hiss under his breath and slap his rag down on the bar counter.

“What do you mean I already know my alternators are the problem?” Clay asked. “Why would I already know that? Why would you think I already know that?”

“It’s, um, well, I assumed, you know, well, since you’re an experienced pilot and all, that since…” Holcomb stuttered then trailed off. He took a deep breath then looked Clay square in the face. “Shit, Mr. MacAulay, this is hard enough as it is. Don’t make it worse, please.”

Clay didn’t know what to make of that statement. Was it a threat? A warning? Was Holcomb the one that sent the note? It didn’t seem likely, but nothing did in Perdition Plains.

“Alright, I won’t,” Clay finally replied. “On one condition.”

“A condition? What condition?” Holcomb asked.

Clay nodded at the plate of spoiled meat. “Can I please get some decent food? I’ll eat raw oats at this point, but since I ain’t seen no horses, only those tweeners of yours, I suppose you probably don’t have any. I’ve got some salted meat back in my mech.”

“It was ruined by the water,” Holcomb said then held up a hand. “Yes, I searched your mech. The folks in charge insisted. I didn’t take nothing and left everything right where it is, so don’t get mad. But I am afraid to say your supplies are ruined.”

“Well, what is there in this town that can be considered palatable?” Clay asked.

“I could have some fresh bison meat brought into town for you, if that will be to your liking,” Holcomb said. “The meat is still plenty good. I could even ask some of my crew to pack some cuts in salt and save them for you, so you have meals during your stay.”

“My stay?” Clay said then waved Holcomb off. “Don’t bother. I’m sure the folks in charge will fill me in.”

“That they will,” Holcomb said and looked relieved that Clay wasn’t more upset than he was. “May I show you to them now?” He looked over at the disapproving barman. “I’ve got work to get back to, you see.”

“Why isn’t Torsten showing me the way?” Clay asked.

“I couldn’t answer that,” Holcomb said.

“Fine,” Clay said, “let’s get this over with.”

Holcomb smiled with relief and led Clay from the not-saloon. Clay nodded to each of the patrons, but none looked at him. As soon as they had stepped out onto the porch, Clay heard the shoving of chairs and clatter of boots across floorboards. He glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the patrons rushing to his table then fighting each other over the hunk of spoiled meat that had been intended as his breakfast.

Ten

“You think I can get my revolver back?” Clay asked. “I’d feel a lot more secure with it on my hip.”

“That won’t be possible,” Holcomb said.

“I hope it’s not because it’s gone missing,” Clay said. “That was a family heirloom. It has sentimental value.”

“I assumed as much,” Holcomb said as they walked away from the not-saloon in the direction of the folks in charge’s building. “From the Bloody Conflict, ain’t it?”

“It is,” Clay acknowledged.

“You’re too young to have served,” Holcomb said.

“That’s true,” Clay said. “Family heirloom. I just mentioned that.”

“You did,” Holcomb said.

Clay was about to ask a question, nothing important, just something random to keep the conversation going, but the words died in his throat.

“Someone had an accident,” Holcomb said as Clay stood next to the wide patch of bloodstained dirt in the center of the town square.

“I’m guessing they aren’t doing so well this morning,” Clay said.

“It happens,” Holcomb said. “Nothing to be done. Can we keep going, Mr. MacAulay? I do have other work to handle today. And I’d like to get that food to you as soon as possible. A man needs his strength.”

“A man sure does,” Clay said as they continued on.

They ascended the steps, crossed the porch, then pushed on inside. The room was as dark as the day before. Everything was.

The folks in charge were seated exactly as they had been during Clay’s previous meeting. Clay had a sinking feeling that if he swiped a finger across the floorboards in front of their chairs, he’d find a layer of dust that hadn’t been disturbed in a very long time. He shook the preposterous thought from his head and sat in the chair facing the folks in charge.

“Thank you, Holcomb,” Thaddeus said. “Please return to your work.”

“Mr. MacAulay has requested some fresh food to eat,” Holcomb said. He cleared his throat nervously. “I said I’d oblige and bring him some bison steaks and pack some more in salt for the duration of his stay. Uh…if that’s alright with you folks?”

“Mr. MacAulay has been provided food,” Thaddeus said. “Is it not to his liking?”

“Speaking on my own, no, it is not to my liking,” Clay said. “Have y’all heard of refrigeration? Not a new thing. Been around for a couple dozen centuries now. Helps keep the meat from spoiling.”

“Meat is meant to spoil,” Estelle said.

“Such is the natural way,” Emily said.

It was the first time Clay had heard her speak. He looked at Thackeray, expecting the man to add his words of wisdom to the conversation, but he only sat there, his sunken cheeks somehow looking more sunken than the evening before.

“I’m a rare steak guy,” Clay said. “I prefer my meat fresh and seared nicely. But salt packed or smoked is fine too.”

Estelle hissed.

“Fire and meat,” she sneered. “No.”

“Uh…what shall I do?” Holcomb asked.

“Return to your duties,” Thaddeus said. “Do as you are expected. Contribute.”

“Contribute,” Estelle said.

“Contribute,” Emily said.

Nothing from Thackeray.

“You best go contribute,” Clay said, letting the man off the hook. “Don’t worry about me. I have a couple extra pounds I need to work off anyway from sitting all day and night in a mech cockpit.”

“Good day then,” Holcomb said and hurried his butt out of the building before his words had finished echoing off the bare walls.

They sat in silence for a long while.

“Is this a telepathic conversation?” Clay finally asked. “Because I’m not tuned in and must be missing most of it.”

“Were your accommodations acceptable?” Thaddeus asked.

“That depends on your definition of acceptable,” Clay said. “I prefer access to a crapper and meat that isn’t trying to crawl off the plate, but beggars can’t be choosers. That’s how that old saying goes, right?”

“Were your accommodations acceptable?” Thaddeus asked again.

“Yes, they were fine,” Clay answered. He nodded and smiled, leaned forward and raised his eyebrows. “And…? Why am I here, folks?”

“You have a mech,” Thaddeus said. “We are in need of a mech.”

“I charge by the hour,” Clay said. No reaction. “That’s a joke. I don’t charge by the hour. I actually don’t charge at all. Why? Because I’m not for hire.”

“We do not need you,” Thaddeus said. “We need your mech.”

“We want your mech,” Estelle said.

Thaddeus held up a hand and she quieted. Clay was fairly certain he heard the man’s flesh and tendons creak from the motion.

“Mechs are hard to come by,” Thaddeus said. “We understand that. We can compensate you considerably for your mech.”

“Compensate me?” Clay responded. “Hold up now, my mech isn’t for sale. Even if it was, it’d be useless to you. I’m the only one that can pilot it.”

“Because of this?” Thaddeus asked and held out his other hand. More creaking of tendons.

Then clomping of boots.

“Torsten, there you are,” Clay said as the giant stomped his way from his shadowed corner and over to Thaddeus. He placed Clay’s watch in Thaddeus’s hand then retreated back to his hidey spot.

Thaddeus attempted to open the watch, running his thumb across the surface, picking at the seam with his frightfully long and yellowed, almost browned, fingernails. He finally gave up and extended his hand, offering the watch to Clay.

“You will open it,” Thaddeus said.

“Sure,” Clay said. He took the watch and thumbed it open. The face glowed brightly, which was a good sign. Still plenty of charge. “Here you go.”

He handed the watch back to Thaddeus. The man looked pleased, although it was hard to tell considering his ancient features. Thaddeus tapped at the watch face several times, but nothing happened.

“Hold on, give it here,” Clay said and reached forward.

Torsten was by Thaddeus’s side in a blink. Clay jerked back so fast that he toppled over in his chair. He picked himself up, wiping dust from his trousers, and set the chair upright then retook his seat.

“He’s a fast one,” Clay said.

“He is,” Thaddeus agreed.

“Show us how it works,” Estelle ordered. “Show us now.”

“It’s just a simple interface,” Clay said, reaching out again with his eyes locked onto Torsten. “You can scroll through different readings and activate the long-range coms.”

“Such as you did last evening,” Thaddeus said.

“If you say so,” Clay replied as he took the watch again. He began swiping through the readings, puzzled at why it didn’t work for Thaddeus. “Only the lock is dialed into my specific biometrics. Once open, anyone can navigate the different settings.”

“That does not seem secure,” Thaddeus said, watching Clay’s movements carefully. “You could be coerced into opening it then anyone will have control of your mech.”

“You really don’t know how mechs work, do you?” Clay said then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. No, the watch doesn’t control the mech. Only a pilot can do that.”

“We have a pilot,” Thaddeus said. “You will grant him access to your mech.”

“Why?” Clay asked and snapped the watch closed. Estelle hissed.

Clay tucked the watch into his vest pocket and Torsten moved towards him, but Thaddeus stayed the giant with the touch of his hand on the man’s leg. Torsten stayed where he was for a second then returned to the corner once again.

“Why would I grant some stranger access to my mech?” Clay asked.

“Because we will it,” Thaddeus said.

“You’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?” Clay sighed. “Yeah, I’ve been around your lot most of my life. The Brazilian Empire is full of people like you.”

“We are the folks in charge,” Thaddeus said. “You will grant our pilot access to your mech.”

“I don’t think so,” Clay said.

“You will grant our pilot access to your mech,” Thaddeus repeated. “You will do this. There is no question of it.”

“You know what? I think there is a huge question of it,” Clay said.

His body was still weak, tired, beat up, and starving, but hell if he was going to sit there and just let some skin-clad skeleton from another century tell him what he was and wasn’t going to do with his mech.

Clay was up on his feet. He lifted the chair and swung it as hard as he could manage as Torsten rushed him. The chair became splinters, and Clay quickly found himself lifted off his feet by his neck as the freak gripped his throat with one hand. But that’s exactly what Clay had expected.

The knife slid into Torsten’s chest with surprising ease. Clay gagged, not just because Torsten was choking the life out of him, but because the smell that emanated from the knife wound was severely overpowering. Clay had thought the place stunk before, it was a million times worse in a matter of one thrust of his knife.

Despite the olfactory assault, Clay yanked the knife free and plunged it into Torsten’s chest again and again, each stab perfectly aimed where Torsten’s heart lay. Or should have. After the sixth stab, and absolutely no reaction from the giant, Clay wondered if perhaps Torsten’s anatomy was as off as his appearance.

He didn’t have much time to wonder as his vision began to darken in direct proportion to his airway being crushed.

“That is enough, Torsten,” Thaddeus said.

Clay was dropped instantly. It was a long fall.

“Please provide Mr. MacAulay with another chair,” Thaddeus ordered. Torsten clomped off then returned with a new chair.

Clay grabbed a splintered chair leg that was close at hand and jammed it directly into Torsten’s crotch. The giant showed no sign his junk had been stabbed. He simply grabbed Clay’s wrist and pulled, removing the chair leg from his nether regions. Then he backhanded Clay.

After flying halfway across the room and landing in an almost broken heap, Clay lay there for a couple minutes before he painfully held his hands up.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Clay said. “Don’t tussle with Torsten. Message received loud and clear.”

It took him considerable effort to get to his feet, but he did. The folks in charge waited patiently until he was able to hobble his way into the new chair.

“What the hell is he?” Clay asked, his eyes going to Torsten’s corner where the giant had returned yet again. “He’s not human.”

“That is not for you to say,” Thaddeus replied.

“No, I suppose it’s not,” Clay said.

“You will grant our pilot access to your mech,” Thaddeus said.

“I reckon I will,” Clay said. “But, I’m telling you, granting your pilot access isn’t going to make a damn bit of difference. Piloting a mech isn’t like driving a roller, especially not the wagon kind you all have. Hell, even if your pilot had the skills needed, which I highly doubt, my mech is in no shape to do anything.”

“The power cell alternators do not work,” Thaddeus said. “Yes, we are aware of that. Repairs are being made as we speak.”

“They are?” Clay asked, pleasantly surprised.

Working alternators solved a lot of his problems. His mind quickly began to formulate an exit strategy. All he needed to do was get inside his mech, and Gibbons could get him the hell out of Perdition Plains. Maybe not back to NorthAm, considering the prior reception, but anywhere was preferable to the nightmare that was the Midlands.

“You have power cell alternators for a battle mech just lying around?” Clay asked. “But you don’t have grey?”

“Grey is not the issue,” Thaddeus said. “And we do not have power cell alternators lying around. There is no need for them. Our people are quite proficient making do with the parts we do have at hand. You would be surprised with what nature provides.”

Clay didn’t like the sound of that.

“Holcomb has been busy working through the night to make the appropriate repairs,” Thaddeus said.

“He has?” Clay asked. “He didn’t say anything to me. The way he was talking, it sounded like he’d left it alone.”

“He said there had been no additional harm done to your mech,” Thaddeus stated.

“Yeah, that is what he said,” Clay responded. “How’d you know…? Never mind. I don’t care. Can someone just take me to my mech so I can see what you have done?”

“Of course,” Thaddeus said. “Torsten will drive you.”

“Oh, come on,” Clay exclaimed. “After what I just did to him? I don’t know how the guy is standing.”

“That is not for you to know,” Estelle said. “Nature has a way.”

“Pretty sure our definitions of nature ain’t exactly the same, lady,” Clay said.

“Torsten,” Thaddeus called. “Please take Mr. MacAulay back to the locks. He has much work to do today.”

Clay sighed and stood up. If everything had hurt before, it hurt doubly at that moment. Torsten walked past him and out the doors. Clay looked each of the folks in charge directly in the eye then shook his head.

“You all have one strange town here,” Clay said. “I’ll be glad when our business is concluded and I can be on my way.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Mr. MacAulay,” Thaddeus said. He nodded at the open doors, causing a loud creak from his neck. “You had better catch up with Torsten. He does not like to wait once an order is given.”

“Yeah, I’d hate to make Torsten wait or anything,” Clay said. He tipped his nonexistent hat. “Dammit…”

It was a long and quiet ride. Torsten was not much of a conversationalist, and Clay felt no need to fill the silence with useless chatter. Instead, he took the time to close his eyes and catch some much-needed rest. It wasn’t exactly sleep, but it was better than nothing.

When they reached the locks, Clay was surprised by how much work had been done. The grounds were clear of the piles of dead bison and in their place waited roller wagon after roller wagon with trailers attached. Several had hides stacked up over the sides with quite a few more holding piles of stripped bones. About three dozen roller wagons were covered over with heavy tarps, and Clay guessed those held the bison meat.

Even from inside the roller wagon Clay rode in, he could smell the meat had already turned. He looked away from the tarp-covered wagons as the sight of the fluids dripping from their seams turned his stomach even more sour than it already was.

“You got some busy bees working for the folks in charge,” Clay said as Torsten brought the roller wagon to a stop. The tweeners team settled down, becoming as motionless as Torsten was next to Clay. “Thanks for the ride. Much appreciated.”

Clay extricated himself from the roller wagon, which took a lot longer than it should since his body was less than healthy. Torsten didn’t even wait a second before snapping the reins and turning the roller wagon around in a tight circle, just barely avoiding running Clay over. Clay watched the roller wagon until it was a speck in the distance then searched the area for his mech.

Considering its size, it should have been easy to spot, but Clay didn’t see it anywhere.

“Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb said as he jogged up to Clay. “I’ve been told you are here to help Mr. Bell get acquainted with your mech.”

“Not that I have much choice,” Clay said. Holcomb shifted uncomfortably. “Doesn’t matter. Getting into these types of situations is something I’m good at. I’m also good at getting myself out of these situations, Holcomb. Just thought you should know.”

“I see,” Holcomb responded, showing no sign he understood the implication. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your mech.”

Holcomb began walking towards the locks and the Vernacht mech. Clay frowned.

“I don’t see it,” Clay said. “You sure you didn’t lose it?”

“Oh, no, it is safe,” Holcomb said. “We placed it in the drained locks. It made it much easier to repair. It would have become a quagmire if we tried to work on it in the dirt.”

“Quagmire? How?” Clay asked.

“Best to see with your own eyes,” Holcomb said.

“Do I want to?” Clay asked.

“You get used to it,” Holcomb said.

“Everyone keeps talking like I’m going to be here for a while,” Clay said. “I really don’t think I am.”

“I thought that once too,” Holcomb muttered. “That was a long while ago.”

Clay’s intended response was lost as they reached the concrete edge of the locks. His jaw dropped as he saw what was being done to his mech. He immediately pulled out his watch and thumbed it open so Gibbons would know he was there. He didn’t say a word, he didn’t have to.

“Clay!” Gibbons shouted into his ear. “They’re using bison parts on my mech! BISON PARTS!”

Eleven

“Clay! Are you listening to me?” Gibbons kept shouting. “These people are fusing dead flesh to my mech! Half the right knee is being retrofitted with what I think are hip tendons! Clay! Dammit, pal, talk to me!”

Holcomb side-eyed Clay. “I’m willing to wager your AI is a little upset right now,” Holcomb said.

“My what?” Clay responded, trying to act like that very AI wasn’t screeching in his ear.

“No need to pretend with me,” Holcomb said as he pointed at the Vernacht several meters away. “I’m familiar with mechs enough to know that a battle mech like yours ain’t gonna work without a sophisticated AI. You got one of them outlawed thinkers in there, don’t ya?”

“Hold on, Gibbons,” Clay said. “Let me work this out. Keep the com open.” He snapped the watch closed since he was in range of the mech’s systems and didn’t need the long-range booster. Clay faced Holcomb. “Explain. Now.”

With a jerk of his head, Holcomb indicated the dozens and dozens of roller wagons with their teams of tweeners.

“You seen what we can do to bison,” Holcomb said. “Same principal, but in reverse. Instead of augmenting a body made of flesh with mechanical parts, we’re augmenting your mech’s mechanical body with flesh parts.”

“That’s not possible,” Clay said.

“Of course it is,” Holcomb replied. “Take a closer look at the Vernacht.”

Clay had to force himself to look away from the sight of the abomination his mech was quickly becoming. He glanced over at the Vernacht, not seeing anything. Then he realized that’s because parts of the Vernacht had browned and greyed with not only age, but layers and layers of dust and dirt. There was a roundness to some parts that shouldn’t have been there.

“Holy shit,” Clay said. “How?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Holcomb said. “And I’d be lying if I told you I developed the process.”

“Who did?” Clay asked.

“That’s a different story for different day,” Holcomb said. “I hope I can tell it to you one day.”

“Why the hell can’t you?” Clay snapped. Holcomb just gave him a sad look. “Because you don’t know if the folks in charge are going to keep me alive or not, right?”

“It really is up to you, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb said. “I mean that in all sincerity. We all had to make a hard choice when we came to Perdition Plains. The Midlands ain’t no place where a person can survive on their own. A man or woman can choose to live or die. I made my choice, and I have learned to live with it, in a way. This moment, right now, is where you make your choice.”

“What? Right now, right now?” Clay asked. “What the hell does that mean?”

Holcomb put his fingers to his mouth and whistled.

“What ya need?” a familiar face below shouted up at them.

“Clear it out, Regan,” Holcomb ordered. “Time to let Mr. MacAulay do his part.”

“Got ya,” Regan said and started barking orders at the men and women that covered the surface of the mech.

They quickly scattered, gathering up tools into bison hide bags, and waited by the sides of the locks. Someone in the Vernacht manipulated the huge claw down into the locks and lifted the men and women up in groups. It took a few minutes, but soon the locks were clear of everyone except Regan and one other man.

“That’s Mr. Bell,” Holcomb said. There was a tone in Holcomb’s voice that caused Clay to shiver uncontrollably. “He’ll be piloting your mech.”

“Then what the hell am I here for?” Clay snapped.

“To help him do that,” Holcomb said. “What your role will be in the future ain’t for me to say. The folks in charge will decide that based on how you cooperate. It was the same for all of us. I was a skilled engineer before I came here and they happened to need a new one when I arrived. I got to keep doing what I’ve done most of my life.”

“I’ve always been a mech pilot,” Clay said. “If they already have one then I have to say I ain’t exactly thrilled at my prospects.”

“You seem resourceful,” Holcomb said. “I’m sure you can convince the folks in charge of your usefulness. Just once you do, never give them reason to doubt it.”

“That what happened to the person in the town square last night?” Clay asked. “Did they give the folks in charge reason to doubt their usefulness?”

“Not for me to say,” Holcomb replied quietly.

The Vernacht claw was lowered before them. Holcomb stepped from the concrete edge and onto the claw. He turned and waited for Clay to follow.

“We all had to make the choice you have to make,” Holcomb said. “It’s the only way.”

“I doubt that,” Clay said. “There’re always other ways.”

But he didn’t argue and followed Holcomb onto the claw. It was lowered slowly into the locks, setting them down next to the mech’s right hip joint. Clay was hesitant to step onto the concrete since it was covered in close to an inch of congealed blood and fluids, but Holcomb wasn’t so squeamish and stepped off the claw and made his way over to Regan and Mr. Bell.

“How the hell do I get myself into this shit?” Clay muttered as he reluctantly followed.

Regan, Clay knew, but Mr. Bell was a complete stranger. Emphasis on the strange.

The man was short, well under two meters, and seemed oddly proportioned. His shoulders were wide, but arms skinny. His legs thick in the calves, as evidenced by how they bulged against his trousers, yet the thighs seemed loose. The man’s torso was barrel-chested, which matched the shoulders, but his waist was almost nonexistent.

To top it off, literally, he had an oversized head with the same mottled skin that covered Torsten’s face and neck. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of dusty goggles and his scalp was covered with a hat.

Clay’s hat.

“Hey!” Clay yelled, quickly ignoring the man’s odd appearance. “My hat!”

“It’s a mech pilot’s hat,” Regan said. “Cavalry, yeah? Goes to Mr. Bell now. He’s the mech pilot. You ain’t nothing no more.”

“Stow it, Regan,” Holcomb ordered. “No need to rub it in.”

Clay went for his revolver, it wasn’t there. He went for his knife, it wasn’t there either.

“Dammit,” he swore then began to bring his arm back.

“I wouldn’t,” Holcomb said, placing a hand on Clay’s shoulder. “Mr. Bell is an experienced fighter.”

“I’ve been in an altercation or two myself,” Clay snarled as he shrugged off Holcomb’s hand.

“In the same condition you’re in now?” Holcomb asked. “How’d those altercations work out for you, Mr. MacAulay?”

Regan gave a short bark of a laugh and sneered at Clay.

“I want my hat back,” Clay said. He held out his hand to Mr. Bell. “Now.”

Mr. Bell growled, a deep sound from low in his belly.

Clay pulled his hand back, the image of a wild animal biting it off prevalent in his mind.

“Don’t want to be messing with Mr. Bell,” Regan said.

“That’s enough!” Holcomb shouted. “Regan get your ass up top and tell the rollers to move on to town. I want the supplies put in before it’s dark.”

“Yes, sir,” Regan said, that sneer still affixed to his face as he pushed past Clay and walked to the Vernacht’s claw.

Once Regan and the claw were out of the locks, Holcomb turned to Clay and sighed. “I believe it’s time you showed Mr. Bell the secrets of your mech. Ain’t no delaying the inevitable. The folks in charge will out wait you every damn time.”

“I have a feeling those people can out wait time itself,” Clay said.

“You have no idea how right you may be, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb said and gestured to the mech. “Shall we?”

“What am I going to do?” Clay said. “I get how you think you can fuse tendons and ligaments to the mech for structural use. That makes sense in a sick sort of way. But the issue has been the power cell alternators from the beginning. There’s no way you can repair those without actual mechanical parts.”

“We have our ways,” Holcomb said.

Clay stared at him for a long while.

“Do I want to know?” Clay asked.

“At some point, you will,” Holcomb said. “At some point, you’ll have to. But if you want to maintain your ignorance on this subject for now, I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

Clay let out a long breath through his nostrils. Mr. Bell growled again.

“Come on,” Holcomb said. “Let’s get you two up inside this mech. Your AI ain’t gonna put up a fight, is it? You got a tame one or is it one of them half-mad AIs that was supposed to be put down after the Bloody Conflict?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Clay said.

“The harder you make this on me, the harder the folks in charge make it on you,” Holcomb said and shrugged. “But it’s your life.”

“For how long?” Clay snorted.

“For as long as they want,” Holcomb said and climbed up the side of one of the mech’s legs until he was on top and able to walk the front all the way to the cockpit, which stood wide open.

Holcomb gave another long whistle and Mr. Bell followed. Clay was right behind the man, studying his every move. He had the brainless attitude of Torsten, but Clay had witnessed how fast and agile that giant was. Mr. Bell seemed to be doubly adept. He scrambled up along the mech with a physical efficiency that clenched Clay’s gut. If they had to face off, mech to mech, Clay wasn’t sure who would win.

When all three were at the cockpit, Clay climbed down inside then gestured for Mr. Bell to follow. The man stood right where he was, his goggles making him look like a bug-eyed imbecile.

“Go on now,” Holcomb ordered. “Get in there and do what you were made to do.”

“Excuse me?” Clay asked. “Made?”

“Don’t play stupid,” Holcomb said. “You got eyes.”

“Yeah, I got eyes, but what does that have to… Never mind. Let’s get this over with,” Clay said.

He pointed to the pilot’s seat. Luckily, it was sans bison flesh.

“You sit there and let the system acclimate to your biometrics and brainwaves,” Clay said.

Mr. Bell took the seat. Nothing happened.

“What’s wrong?” Holcomb asked. “Why ain’t the consoles lighting up?”

“I don’t know,” Clay said. “You’re the one that was in charge of fixing it. You tell me.”

“It is fixed,” Holcomb said. “I checked all the power cells myself. This mech has full juice and the alternators, for what they are, work perfectly.”

“What are they?” Clay asked.

“What do you think could handle the electrical connections needed to alternate current?” Holcomb replied.

“Just tell me,” Clay snapped. Holcomb tapped his temple. “Brains? You used bison brains?”

“It works,” Holcomb said.

“Apparently not,” Clay said.

“It works,” Holcomb insisted. “Mr. MacAulay, I like you, but if you make me look bad in front of the folks in charge, then I’m going to stop liking you.”

Clay glanced around. “Pretty sure they aren’t here to see you fail.”

“They are everywhere, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb said. “Everywhere.”

Mr. Bell fidgeted in the pilot’s seat then growled once more. His fingers gripped the armrests until every knuckle popped and his hands turned whiter than they already were.

“This isn’t going to end well for you, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb said. “Mr. Bell hasn’t eaten today.”

“So? I haven’t either!” Clay snarled. Mr. Bell growled louder. “Oh, shut the hell up!”

There was the click of a hammer being pulled back and Clay’s eyes went wide as Holcomb produced Clay’s revolver and aimed it at his head.

“Mr. MacAulay, I’ve been given instructions, and they need to be carried out,” Holcomb said. “Last time I plan on asking.”

“Okay, okay, hold on!” Clay exclaimed. “Shit, man. Let me think.”

Clay closed his eyes and was silent for three seconds. His eyes popped open, and he snapped his fingers.

“Reboot default,” Clay said. “The power cells were disconnected. Security has kicked in and the mech is locked down. I’ll need to enter the codes and confirm my biometrics before controls can be transferred over to Mr. Bell.”

“Then please do that,” Holcomb said.

Clay pointed at a particularly bad-looking console. “I can’t.”

“Wrong answer,” Holcomb said and his trigger finger tensed.

“No need to get shooty,” Clay said. “I can make it work, but I’ll need your help.”

“How?” Holcomb asked.

Clay looked from the console then up out of the concrete walls of the locks at the Vernacht that stood at the edge far above them. “I’ll need about one hundred meters of fiber-optic cable. You have that handy?”

“I do,” Holcomb said.

“You do?” Clay responded, taken aback.

“You won’t be able to derail me by asking for cable, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb said. “Fiber optic cable is cheap and easy to get, even in the Midlands. Let me get up top and fetch some for ya.”

“No, I’ll go and throw it down,” Clay said. “I need to patch into the Vernacht’s interface so I can enter the codes from there and it can scan my biometrics. Unless the Vernacht doesn’t have a biometric interface console?”

“It does,” Holcomb said.

“Of course it does,” Clay sighed. “Once I activate the reboot, the mech will be in Mr. Bell’s hands. You win.”

“I haven’t won for a very long time,” Holcomb said and Clay almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost.

The Vernacht’s claw descended to the cockpit, and Clay looked at Holcomb in surprise.

“External microphones,” Holcomb said. “So the pilot can hear me when I’m down by the locks shouting orders.”

“Handy,” Clay said. He left the cockpit and climbed up into the claw. “It’s going to be automatic, so be ready. As soon as the reboot happens, this mech will power up and become live. You sure Mr. Bell can handle it?”

“I am sure,” Holcomb said.

“Okay then,” Clay said. “Give me five minutes once you make the connections. Need me to draw you a schematic?”

“I can handle it,” Holcomb snapped. “Just get.”

The claw ascended, and Clay took several deep, calming breaths. He popped open his watch and entered a series of quick codes.

“You know what I’m doing, Gibbons?” Clay asked.

“Yes,” Gibbons replied. “Just tell me we’ll get the mech back.”

“Oh, we’ll get the mech back,” Clay said. “And we’ll get it back to its original, non-fleshy state. Then we are long gone from here.”

“That better happen,” Gibbons responded.

The claw stopped parallel to the Vernacht’s cockpit, which sat on top of series of decks like a hump on the machine’s back. The machine itself was an eight-legged monstrosity that outweighed Clay’s mech by almost a thousand tons. It was three hundred meters from end to end, two hundred meters tall, and could dismantle a mountain without running out of power.

Clay had to fight the urge to laugh as he climbed from the claw to the cockpit and waited for the pilot to open the side hatch. The cockpit could seat four, and was designed that way in case the military, whatever military, needed to retrofit the machine for battle use during the Bloody Conflict. Rarely did that occur, from what Clay knew, since despite there being eight legs, Vernachts were painfully slow.

The pilot was a patchwork-faced gentleman like Mr. Bell and Torsten. Clay wasn’t surprised.

“Fiber optic cable?” Clay asked.

The pilot pointed to a cabinet at the back of the cockpit. Clay stepped inside, went to the cabinet, fished out a large spool of cable, and struggled to carry it out of the cockpit. He wrapped the free end of the cable around one of the claw’s fingers, making sure it wouldn’t come loose, then turned and nodded at the pilot.

The claw descended as Clay let the cable play out, the spool spinning on a heavy rod set into the center of it. Clay watched the claw reach the mech below and waited until Holcomb had retrieved the end.

“Connected!” Clay heard Holcomb’s voice shout over a set of speakers in the Vernacht’s cockpit.

The pilot turned to look at Clay. Clay gave him a weak smile and stepped back into the cockpit with the spool.

“Hold this,” Clay said.

The pilot hesitated then took the spool. Clay punched him right between the eyes. The pilot stumbled back, and Clay was on him fast. Three more strikes and the pilot’s eyes rolled up into his skull. Clay waited a few seconds to make sure the guy was out then hunted around for a pair of wire cutters. He found some in the same cabinet where he’d retrieved the spool.

Clay flipped open his watch again.

“We’ll have to do this fast,” Clay said. “As soon as you power up and we begin the transfer, Mr. bell is going to have access to the mech’s controls. It’ll take a minute or two for him to get acclimated, but he’ll figure it out if he isn’t totally braindead in there.”

“What about Holcomb?” Gibbons asked.

“I don’t care about him,” Clay said. “He’ll be a tiny man between two giant mechs. With us being in the larger of the giants.”

He snipped some wire and lay down on the cockpit floor, popping open a panel just below the main controls. He spliced the cable into an empty port then stood up and set his hand upon a live console.

“Ready, buddy?” Clay asked.

“Ready, pal,” Gibbons replied.

Clay activated the command on the console while activating a simultaneous command in the pocket watch and the process started immediately.

“This feels funky,” Gibbons said then his voice squelched and the communication was cut.

“Good luck, buddy,” Clay whispered as the transfer of Gibbons’ AI mind from the old mech to the Vernacht began.

Twelve

“Is it working?” Holcomb’s voice echoed in the Vernacht’s cockpit speakers.

Clay didn’t respond, only stood there, his eyes locked onto the progress bar as Gibbons’ AI consciousness uploaded into the Vernacht’s system.

“Hello? I’d be much obliged if someone could respond and let me know what is going on,” Holcomb said. “I see lights running on the consoles down here, but nothing is starting up.” There was a short pause. “Hello?”

Clay glanced over at the unconscious pilot. He’d have to do something with the guy. Couldn’t really take him with them. Maybe toss him out once they were on their way. Might be nicer to set him down using the claw, but Clay wasn’t feeling too nice at that moment.

Clay studied the mech’s controls, making sure he knew what was what so he could make a fast getaway when the time came. He heard Holcomb shouting from down in the locks.

“Shit,” Clay muttered then stepped out of the cockpit and put a hand to his ear. “What’s that?”

“How’s it going up there?” Holcomb shouted. “I’ve been trying to hail y’all, but no one is answering.”

“Damn, that’s not good,” Clay replied. “There must be a short in the coms that was triggered by the reboot. I’ll check it. Hold on!”

Holcomb yelled something else, but Clay didn’t hear it as he went back into the cockpit and engaged the motor drives. He knew Holcomb wasn’t going to buy a short in the coms for very long, and he needed to be ready to flee the very second Gibbons’ transfer was complete.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Clay said, tapping his fingers on the console. “Come on!”

There was a shrill beep then Gibbons announced from the speakers, “I’m in! Go!”

Clay yanked the fiber optic cable free and tossed it out of the cockpit.

“What the hell?” Holcomb’s voice rang out. “What is going on up there? I want a report now! You hear me? I want a—!”

Clay cut the speakers and backed the Vernacht away from the locks.

“That freaky Mr. Bell has figured out that I was blocking his pilot interface,” Gibbons said. “He’s powering up the mech. We’re going to need to hurry. Our mech will catch this monstrosity easy if we don’t get a good lead.”

“I know,” Clay said as he spun the cockpit around to face the opposite direction.

One of the great things about the Vernacht was that it was symmetrical. No real front, no real back. The cockpit could swivel around and make its own front and back.

The control interface was a clunky thing, designed more for stability than for transportation. It was nothing like the battle mech Clay was used to.

“Let me help,” Gibbons said. “I’ll be better suited to pilot while you work the claw.”

“Why am I working the claw?” Clay asked.

“Because our defiled mech is climbing out of the locks right now,” Gibbons said. “I don’t know who Mr. Bell is, but he knows how to pilot a mech.”

“Would have been nice if you’d put some sort of lockdown on the mech before leaving it,” Clay said.

“Who says I didn’t?” Gibbons replied, his voice less than thrilled with Clay’s passive aggressive comment. “Be patient, pal. The worm has to run its course.”

“So you did sabotage the mech’s systems?” Clay asked.

“Of course. Don’t insult me with stupid questions,” Gibbons replied. “I know my job, Clay.”

“Any idea when the worm is going to kick in?” Clay asked, bringing the Vernacht’s claw around to face the mech that had just crested the side of the concrete locks. “Our mech may be out of ammo, but it can still kick some serious ass.”

“If Mr. Bell knows how to fight,” Gibbons said. “Being proficient at piloting, or even using weapons systems, is not the same as knowing hand-to-hand combat. Maybe he can shoot, but can he land a solid roundhouse kick in a fifty-foot battle mech without falling on his ass?”

The mech grabbed a stray hunk of equipment that was set next to the concrete locks. With almost perfect execution, it threw the equipment at the Vernacht while breaking into an all-out run.

“Shit!” Clay yelled as he brought the claw up to block the incoming equipment. He barely made it in time and the Vernacht shuddered from the impact. “Any damage?”

“No,” Gibbons said. “That claw can take a beating. It would need a direct rocket impact to even put it out of synch.”

“Good to know,” Clay said. “I’m spinning the cockpit back around, okay? I need eyes on this guy. You got the piloting under control?”

“What did I just say about not insulting me with stupid questions?” Gibbons grumbled. “You fight, I’ll pilot.”

“Deal,” Clay said.

“I do have one question,” Gibbons said.

“What’s that?” Clay replied.

“Where am I piloting us to?” Gibbons asked.

“Away,” Clay said.

“Anything more specific?” Gibbons sighed.

“Far enough away that we lose this jerk and can regroup to figure out our next move,” Clay said.

“So we’re coming back?” Gibbons asked.

“Hell yes we’re coming back!” Clay exclaimed. “These assholes took our mech! We need that mech! They can’t have it!”

“Good to hear,” Gibbons said. “I’m pushing the long-range scanners to full to see if maybe we can find a dead spot. Some place where we can hide without being discovered.”

“And they have my hat and pistol,” Clay continued. “I want those back.”

“Did you hear me about the scanners?” Gibbons asked.

“I heard you,” Clay replied. “See anything?”

Clay watched as the other mech slowly closed the gap between them. Mr. Bell knew how to run a battle mech. The machine wasn’t missing a step, and its strides actually looked like the legs were moving at full efficiency.

“Too soon to tell,” Gibbons responded. “And this isn’t the mountains. We’re in the Midlands, Clay. There’s nothing but prairies for as far as the eye can see. Unless I can find us an empty riverbed or some culvert big as a canyon we can tuck this thing in, we’ll be sticking out like a sore thumb for a while.”

“I really hate the Midlands,” Clay said. “This would have been so much easier if we’d been able to cross into NorthAm.”

“That goes without saying,” Gibbons said. “So don’t.”

Clay was about to reply, but warning klaxons blared in the cockpit.

“Are these readings right?” Clay asked. “How the hell?”

“Son of a bitch,” Gibbons said. “That bastard got the plasma cannons online. I thought I’d gummed them up.”

“He found an end around and now he has enough power to fire them,” Clay said. “What kind of plasma damage can the Vernacht take?”

Gibbons didn’t answer right away.

“Gibbons?” Clay pressed.

“It can take some, but not a lot,” Gibbons admitted. “Physical damage is one thing, this mech was built to get the ever-loving hell beat out of it since it’s a construction mech, but energy attacks? It’s not wired right. If we take too many direct hits, the systems will be fried, and we’ll be stopped dead in these prairies.”

“Not what I wanted to hear,” Clay said.

“Not what I wanted to say,” Gibbons replied. “I’m diverting as much power into the motor drives as I can get away with.”

Several consoles in the cockpit flickered then went dead. Clay ignored them, his eyes locked onto the mech racing after them with its plasma cannons glowing bright.

“I have us at a matching speed,” Gibbons said. “He can’t gain, but we can’t really escape.”

“What are we going to do? Run forever? We’ll run out of power before he does,” Clay said. “At this forced speed, this Vernacht will eat up power faster than a whore gobbles up—”

He didn’t finish as the battle mech’s cannons fired. Plasma bolts flew towards the Vernacht and Clay gripped the claw controls, his eyes watching as the energy blasts grew closer and closer. He swung the claw in a wide arc and managed to block both plasma bolts, but not without great expense.

“Claw just lost three fingers,” Clay said. “I can maybe swipe away a couple more plasma attacks, but then it’s lights out for the claw.”

“Do what you can,” Gibbons said. “I think I found us a place to hide. It looks like a burrow.”

“A burrow?” Clay asked. “Big enough for a Vernacht to—?”

He shut up and concentrated on the second wave of plasma bolts coming at them. A swipe of the claw and the appendage no longer had any usable fingers. The remaining digits had been blasted from the palm except for one which hung by a bent and scorched strut. Clay gave the claw arm a shake and the last digit broke free and fell to the ground.

“We’ll be taking body blows from here on out,” Clay said.

“I am aware,” Gibbons replied.

“How close is that burrow?” Clay asked. “Can it be called a burrow? It would have to be a massive cavern or something for this thing to fit.”

“We’re not close enough for deep scanners to penetrate the ground yet,” Gibbons said. “But luckily this machine is equipped with the capabilities to render us an almost three-dimensional view once we are close enough. Construction mechs do have some perks.”

“You’re not giving up on the battle mech, are you?” Clay asked.

Gibbons sighed. “Hear that sound? That’s me sighing with as much exasperation and sarcasm as possible. Let me do it again.” Gibbons sighed even longer.

“Okay, I get it,” Clay said.

The battle mech seemed to be gaining ground and Clay checked the scanners. “Gibbons?”

“I see it,” Gibbons said. “Whatever repairs they did to our mech, it’s increased the travel efficiency. The flesh parts are making the mech faster. Possibly due to weight or just increased flexibility in the joints.”

“We’re going to have to take a stand and fight,” Clay said.

“How? The only weapon this mech had was the claw,” Gibbons said.

“I can handle this,” Clay said.

He’d been standing at the controls the whole time, but as the battle mech gained on them, he sat down in the pilot’s seat and strapped in.

“I’m going to need full control, buddy,” Clay said. “Keep us running full out until I give the word then switch it all over to me.”

“Don’t break our mech,” Gibbons said.

“I’ll try not to, but no promises,” Clay said. “I bet Holcomb will just fix it back up with bison bits, anyway. Right now, we need to worry about us not getting broken.”

Clay ran his hands over the mech controls. Eight legs with a claw arm. No claw, but the arm was still functional and Clay could work with that. He also saw that there were four blast torches, two ramming pistons, and something marked SMCPLV.

“Gibbons? What the hell is a SMCPLV?” Clay asked.

“Seismic pulverizer,” Gibbons replied. “You can center the mech over large boulders and crush them using concentrated sound waves. It really should be called a sonic pulverizer, but seismic sounds better. I’ll bet it was the sales department that named it when these models were first for sale. That would have been way before the Bloody Conflict started and all mechs were requisitioned for military use.”

“Seismic pulverizer,” Clay said. “I like that. Can we get one for our mech?”

“Not unless we want to add about two hundred tons of stabilizing weight and six more legs,” Gibbons replied. Clay didn’t respond. “No, we are not adding two hundred tons of stabilizing weight and six more legs to our battle mech, Clay. Get it out of your head.”

“You’re no fun, buddy,” Clay said.

They kept running, the battle mech slowly getting closer and closer.

“If we are going to make a stand, then we need to do it here,” Gibbons said. “Any farther and the battle mech will be able to scan where we are going once we kick its butt and get back to running away.”

“I like your optimism,” Clay said. “Give me the controls and let’s make our stand.”

Clay felt the pilot’s seat fully come to life and the consoles around him, the ones Gibbons had shut down for added power, lit back up. Clay turned the mech so that two of the blast torches were facing the oncoming battle mech.

“You have a plan?” Gibbons asked.

“I do,” Clay said. “It’s so simple I feel bad I didn’t think about it before.”

“Want to give me a hint?” Gibbons asked.

“You’re about to see,” Clay said.

The battle mech slowed then came to a full stop. Clay flipped the com to an open channel.

“Mr. Bell,” Clay called. “You can handle a mech, I’ll give you that. I know you think you have a job to do and all, but how about you quit while you’re ahead and abandon our mech? Just hop on out and walk away? You can keep that patchwork skin of yours intact, we get our property back, and everyone goes their separate ways. Deal?”

Clay was answered by a low growl then a sharp snarl.

“He’s increased his vocabulary,” Clay said.

“Doubled it even,” Gibbons added.

A second voice broke in. “Mr. MacAulay? This is Holcomb.”

“I figured,” Clay replied. “What can I do for you, Holcomb?”

“You can return my Vernacht and refrain from damaging your mech,” Holcomb said. “You do that, and I’ll even let you upload your AI into a roller system, and you both can be on your way.”

“He’s lying,” Gibbons said. “Voice analysis says he has no intention of letting us do any of that. You step out of this mech and you’re dead, Clay. Then they’ll dismantle my programming until I’m no more than a basic autopilot. He’s also scared. Terrified even. We must have him worried.”

“I don’t think he’s terrified of us,” Clay said. “You never saw the folks in charge. Those people are downright Satanic, if you ask me. Pure evil.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Gibbons said.

“Holcomb, I appreciate the offer, but we both know you can’t make good on anything you just said,” Clay responded over the com. “We give up and we’re dead, both of us. I’m going to have to undo some of your handy work so we can be on our way. But before I do, I want you to know this is far from over. We will be back. We will take our mech. We will stomp our way into town and pay the folks in charge back. In full.”

“I am sorry to hear you say that, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb replied. “I kinda liked you, son. You have spirit. Which is why I guess you’d never fit in around Perdition Plains. Spirit is frowned upon here.”

“I gathered that quickly,” Clay said.

He moved the Vernacht in a slow pace towards the battle mech.

“Mr. Bell? My offer still stands,” Clay said. “Get out, walk away, and no harm comes to you.”

The battle mech raised the plasma cannons once more, their tips glowing hot as they prepared to fire.

“Alright then,” Clay said and engaged the blast torches.

The flames extended in bright blue and orange streams straight out of the side of the Vernacht. The battle mech quickly began to retreat as the flesh components on its structure started to smolder and bubble.

“Damn,” Gibbons said. “This is why you’re the best mech pilot in the land.”

“I don’t know about that,” Clay said.

“It’s a small pool, so you have a good shot at that title,” Gibbons said. “Most of the really good ones are long dead.”

“Cute,” Clay said and piloted the Vernacht closer to the battle mech.

Clay upped the fuel to the blast torches and the streams of fire extended several meters further, cooking one of the flesh patches on the battle mech’s right knee joint. There was a loud hiss then pop as the rotten bison flesh burned all the way through and the knee gave out.

“Going in for the kill,” Clay said.

Then the battle mech’s plasma cannons opened up, and Clay was shouting orders for Gibbons to take back control and get them out of there. Sparks flew everywhere, and the cockpit became a cage filled with caustic smoke.

As Gibbons got the Vernacht moving again, Clay undid his straps and crawled over to the cockpit’s door. He shoved it open and gulped fresh air. Or as fresh as the air was that close to Perdition Plains.

“We lost one of the legs. It’s hanging on by a couple cables only,” Gibbons announced. “Two more are damaged and at half their functionality. I’m ditching the lost one and retracting the damaged ones. I’ll redistribute power to the ones that are working fully.”

“Can you do that?” Clay asked. “Won’t we fall over?”

“It’s why the Vernacht has eight legs, Clay,” Gibbons said in a tone that came very close to duh.

“Fine,” Clay said. “Do what you have to. Are we out of range of the—?”

Clay’s question was simultaneously cut off and answered as several more plasma bolts impacted with the Vernacht’s structure. Klaxons blared, more smoke filled the cockpit, and Clay stayed hunkered down by the open door, as worried about the shower of sparks issuing from the sizzling consoles as he was about the smoke.

He lifted his head and stared across the plains at the far-off battle mech. More plasma bolts came at them, but Gibbons had managed to get the Vernacht out of range.

“Mr. MacAulay?” Holcomb’s voice crackled in the speakers. “Mr. MacAulay? This is far from over. I am sorry it had to come to this.”

“You and me both,” Clay said to himself. He didn’t bother engaging the com and actually responding.

Holcomb continued speaking, but the connection was quickly lost as Gibbons got the Vernacht far enough away. Soon, they were far over the horizon and the downed battle mech was completely lost from sight.

“It’s returning to the locks,” Gibbons said. “We’ll be out of its scan range in about six kilometers.”

“Good,” Clay said. “How far until we reach the burrow you found?”

“That’s approximately eighteen kilometers,” Gibbons said. “But you’ll have to go on your own, Clay.”

“I’ll what?” Clay exclaimed.

“I am going to need to power down two more legs,” Gibbons said. “I won’t disengage them completely, but they’ll only be there for stability, not propulsion. Mr. Bell is quite the marksman with the plasma cannons.”

“But you can keep this thing moving?” Clay asked.

“Yes,” Gibbons answered.

“Then why am I leaving and going to the burrow on my own?” Clay asked. “I’ll just stay in here with you.”

“Clay, are you aware of your current situation?” Gibbons asked. “You are lying prone on the floor, halfway out of the door because the air in the cockpit is fouled beyond being breathable.”

“Well, yeah, there’s that,” Clay admitted.

“I’m also dealing with a possible hack situation,” Gibbons said. “It looks like Holcomb may have remote access to the Vernacht’s systems. It’s rudimentary, and I am blocking it successfully, but just in case my attention waivers, I’d hate for you to die because of any self-destruct sequence that is triggered.”

Clay gulped. “That’s possible?”

“Like I said, Clay, I am blocking it successfully, but this mech’s primary system is not designed to handle an AI of my caliber,” Gibbons said. “It’s like you trying to fit into a children’s poncho. Things could break, and there’s not a lot I can do about it. It’ll be easier for me to work out the problem knowing I won’t accidentally kill you if I am the one that mistakenly triggers the self-destruct.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Clay said. “Try to get me as close as possible, will ya?”

“I will,” Gibbons said.

They trekked on in silence for another sixteen kilometers. Clay half dozed on the floor, coughing now and again as the cockpit smoke wafted over him. He was amazed the whole thing didn’t just go up in flames, but the Vernacht was mostly constructed of fire-retardant materials and all it did was sizzle and smolder. Clay laughed to himself how his battle mech, which was designed to engage in combat and get parts and pieces blown off, wasn’t even close to as fire retardant as the Vernacht. The military on both sides of the Bloody Conflict could have saved countless lives by taking some cues from the private sector and construction industry.

The mech slowed, and Gibbons lowered the main body down to the ground.

“This is as far as we go,” Gibbons said. “I don’t know the blast radius if this machine goes up.”

“No claw to take me to the ground,” Clay said.

“I have extended a side ladder,” Gibbons said.

“Great,” Clay said.

He scrambled all the way out of the mech and found the ladder.

“Stay safe, Gibbons,” Clay said. “Try not to blow up.”

“Until we meet again,” Gibbons responded.

“Until we meet again?” Clay laughed. “Nice one.”

He descended to the ground, stretched his legs a few times, then started on his journey. He thumbed open his watch and the route to the burrow was clearly delineated across the face. Two kilometers and he’d be there.

The walk was not a fun one. The plains looked flat when you observed them on a grand scale, but down close, the ground was chock full of obstacles. Mostly ankle-breaker holes from where prairie dogs had created yet another entrance/exit to their warren. He caught sight of one of the critters now and then, heard their high-pitched calls of warning, then watched them disappear in a blink.

Clay was so engrossed with looking out for prairie dog holes that he almost didn’t notice that he was ascending a slight hill. When his breathing increased and legs grew even more tired, he stopped and checked his watch. He’d arrived. He spun in a circle, but didn’t see anything.

Clay started walking again, and within seconds, he found what he was looking for on the far side of the low hill. There was a massive opening, obviously to a huge cave made from limestone. He clambered down the hill to the cave mouth and peered into the darkness.

He was about to walk inside when he felt the ground under him shake. He knew that feeling.

“Gibbons?” Clay called over the com. “Is that you?”

“Is what me?” Gibbons asked, his voice staticky but clear enough to hear. “I haven’t moved a centimeter.”

“I feel mech feet,” Clay said. “Is Mr. Bell coming after us again?”

“I have the scanners offline as I try to repair some of the other systems,” Gibbons said. “But I highly doubt it could be our battle mech. They wouldn’t have had time to make repairs and catch up to us.”

“That’s not good,” Clay said. “It means we have a mystery mech…on…our…”

Clay hurried back away from the cave mouth. His left heel slipped into a prairie dog hole and he fell hard on his ass, pain radiating up from his ankle.

“Oh…my…god,” Clay whispered.

“Clay? Clay! What is it?” Gibbons called.

Clay didn’t reply.

Thirteen

It was unlike anything Clay had ever seen before. Which was saying something since Clay had seen a lot in his time, especially things down in the Brazilian Empire that he even hadn’t told Gibbons about.

But what emerged from the cave mouth was like nothing Clay had experienced.

Except that wasn’t quite true. It actually had a very familiar look to it.

“What the holy hell in a hand basket is this shit?” Clay muttered as he scooted across the dirt and through the prairie grasses on his ass. “I must have fallen asleep while walking. This is just some surreal dream. Gotta be.”

“Clay! Answer me, dammit!” Gibbons yelled.

“I’m here, buddy,” Clay replied. “But you aren’t real. I’m sleeping.”

“You are not sleeping!” Gibbons barked. “What is going on? Why are you talking like that?”

“I’m not sleeping?” Clay asked.

“You are not sleeping!” Gibbons shouted.

“Huh,” Clay said. “Then this is going to be hard to explain.”

“What is?” Gibbons demanded.

“You know how we thought what they did to our mech was weird?” Clay asked. “Repairing it with bison parts?”

“Yes, Clay, that was a recent experience,” Gibbons said. “I haven’t forgotten it.”

The thing before Clay had come fully out of the cavern and towered over him. The smell was intense, but not rotten. That surprised Clay. One of many surprises.

“Yeah, well, I think I’m looking at a mech made entirely of bison parts,” Clay said. “I’m staring at a flesh mech.”

“A flesh mech?” Gibbons asked.

“A flesh mech,” Clay repeated. “A mech made of flesh. Fully articulated arms, legs, torso. Not as large as our battle mech, not cavalry. More like one of the squat infantry mechs. The ones they used at the start of the Bloody Conflict before resources started dwindling.”

“A flesh mech?” Gibbons asked.

“Yep,” Clay said. “Flesh mech. Gotta be ten meters tall and ten wide. It’s a bruiser.”

“Even my processing capacity is having a hard time understanding what you are telling me,” Gibbons said. “A flesh mech?”

“Can we skip that question?” Clay replied. “We’ve established I’m looking at a flesh mech. Oh, shit, and the cockpit is opening.”

“Is the cockpit actually made of—?” Gibbons started.

“No,” Clay interrupted. “Do not finish that question. We’ll skip the anatomy lesson today, thank you kindly.”

“Hello down there!” a voice called out as the fleshy cockpit hatch opened fully and a man appeared at the edge. “You must be Clay MacAulay! You got my note, I see! This is such an honor to meet a real mech pilot in the flesh!”

The man laughed hard, clutching at his belly for a few seconds until he calmed down.

“I apologize for the pun,” the man said. “My humor tends to be of a simple style.”

The man was in his mid-fifties. He had a well-groomed handlebar mustache of pure black that complimented his dark brown skin. A head of wild hair matched his mustache’s coloring, but was shot through with pure white in places. He was dressed in a dandy style with a nice black satin vest, a white shirt with rounded collar and long, black bow tie. He had garters above his elbows, keeping the puffy sleeves from getting in his way.

In his way of what, was something Clay couldn’t quite figure out. The man had the look of a doctor or apothecary, but that seemed highly unlikely considering the circumstances.

“Mr. MacAulay?” the man called down. “Are you injured?”

Clay thought of his throbbing ankle. He was injured, but that wasn’t much concern at the moment.

“I’m fine,” Clay replied when he found his voice again. “How do you know my name?”

“I monitor all communications going in and out of Perdition Plains,” the man said. “Helps me to know if they are finally going to make a move and come for me. I was almost sure they would send you out here in your battle mech, but I quickly gathered you were not a man easily manipulated which is why I had risked the note last night. Unfortunate, they had to employ Mr. Bell to take your place. They should let that man rest, God bless his damned soul.”

Clay rubbed the heels of his hands in his eyes, blinked several times, then sighed deeply.

“Ya got me, mister,” Clay said. “I ain’t got a clue as to what is going on.”

“Oh, how rude of me!” the man exclaimed. “I should have introduced myself.”

He cleared his throat and gave a short bow. Or tried to. He almost fell over the cockpit edge, grabbed onto the side, slipped, and cried out before regaining his balance.

“Well that was embarrassing,” the man said. “As you can see, mechs are not my forte, despite my having built this one myself.”

“Hardly by yourself,” a woman called as she walked from the cavern entrance and out between the flesh mech’s feet. “I’d say letting you take the Prometheus out for a stroll has gone straight to your brain. Your ego does not need more encouragement, Father.”

She was dressed in grungy-looking coveralls and had a sweat-stained bandanna wrapped about her head, keeping her thick, curly black hair from out of her face. Like her father above, her skin was dark, but not as deeply brown. She eyed Clay warily, her irises golden, catching what sunlight was able to filter down through the constant cloud cover.

The woman could have been about Clay’s age, but it was hard to tell since her face seemed to be smeared with some sort of grease. Or at least Clay hoped it was grease. Considering the impossible creation before him, he wasn’t so sure.

She approached Clay, wiping her hands on a rag before tucking it into a back pocket of her coveralls. She stopped about two meters from Clay and stood with her hands on her hips.

“You said you were fine, but I can see how you are tucking that leg of yours back that you twisted your ankle,” the woman said. “So tell the truth, are you injured?”

“I may have stepped in a prairie dog hole,” Clay said.

“You may have?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Okay, I did,” Clay said. “Twisted my ankle.”

“I suspected as much,” the woman said. “I can size up a person’s anatomy, and any defects that it may possess, in seconds.” She jerked her head back over her shoulder. “I’d have to in order to build something like that, now wouldn’t I?”

She waited for Clay to answer and when he didn’t, she repeated, “Well, wouldn’t I?”

“Oh, I thought that was rhetorical,” Clay said. “Yes, I suppose you would, if you actually did build that thing.”

“Of course I did,” she snapped. “Why would I say I had if I hadn’t?”

“Looks more like you’d grow it and not build it,” Clay said. “I mean, that thing is made of flesh, right?”

“It is indeed!” the man called down. “Honest to God flesh! It’s a miracle, wouldn’t you say, Mr. MacAulay?”

The woman rolled her eyes.

“It’s not a miracle, Father,” the woman said. “Calling it a miracle would make us saints. We’re not saints, we’re scientists.”

She watched Clay for a few more seconds then closed the distance between them, extending her hand.

“Paige Barnes,” the woman said. “That crazy man up there is my father, Morley Barnes.”

“A pleasure!” Morley called out. “And I am not crazy!”

Paige rolled her eyes again.

Clay looked at the woman’s hand and frowned.

“I was oiling the well pump,” Paige said. “It’s old hemp grease, nothing more.”

Clay took the offered hand, and started to shake it, but found himself pulled up onto his feet instead. He quickly favored his tender ankle, and Paige put an arm around his waist to steady him.

“Let’s get you inside and out of the weather,” Paige said.

“The weather?” Clay asked.

As if on cue, a far-off rumbling was heard.

“Storm,” Paige said. “Doesn’t look to be a bad one, but you never know in the Midlands.”

“I suppose that means my outing for the day is canceled,” Morley said with deep regret. “How unfortunate. I had been looking forward to my stroll.”

“You weren’t going to be able to go far anyway,” Paige said as she helped Clay hobble towards the cave. “Not with the Perdition family sending out their dogs.”

“The Perdition family? You mean the folks in charge?” Clay asked.

“That’s what they like to think,” Paige huffed. “But they are far from in charge of anything. No one is in the Midlands.”

“And what dogs?” Clay asked.

“Have you seen the tweeners that pull their wagons?” Paige asked.

“Unfortunately,” Clay replied.

“Those are the bison models,” Paige said. “They have canine models, feline models, and…others.”

“Human models?” Clay asked.

“They would like to think so!” Morley yelled down to them as they navigated their way between the Prometheus’s massive flesh mech feet. “But could you call those automatons human in any way, shape or form?” He paused. “Well, I suppose they would be considered human in shape and perhaps form. That was a bad choice of words.”

“Get inside, Father!” Paige yelled, making Clay wince. “He is a genius of extraordinary caliber, but he is also far from stable.”

“I can hear you!” Morley yelled.

“I assumed you could!” Paige yelled back.

“What are you doing out here?” Clay asked. “Did the folks in charge run you two out of Perdition Plains?”

“No one runs us out of anywhere,” Paige said. “Especially not those bags of bones.”

There was a chirping in Clay’s pocket, and he reached for his watch.

“Gibbons? You alright?” Clay asked as he thumbed the watch open and his com came to life.

“I am alright, Clay,” Gibbons said. “I have stabilized the Vernacht and do not think there is any danger of it self-destructing. I have effectively blocked all possible transmissions to anything but the com system.”

“That’s good,” Clay said. “Can you get the thing moving again and come to me?”

“Not as of yet, no,” Gibbons said. “But that is not the problem I am calling about.”

“What is?” Clay asked.

“In our haste to escape Mr. Bell and our own mech, we neglected to remove the pilot from the Vernacht,” Gibbons said.

“Shit,” Clay replied.

“That would be a good word for it,” Gibbons said.

“How the hell did we miss that?” Clay asked.

“His body slid into the corner of the cockpit and was out of sight for most of the ride,” Gibbons said. “You were occupied, I was occupied, and strangely enough, his body does not give off much of a heat signature. He certainly does not register at 98.6 degrees like healthy humans. He managed to fade into the background since he was unconscious.”

“He’s not unconscious anymore, is he?” Clay asked.

“He is not, and he can easily undo all of my hard work if he regains his senses,” Gibbons said.

“That pilot does not possess any sense in the human, well, sense of the word,” Morley shouted from the Prometheus.

“Are you eavesdropping on their conversation, Father?” Paige yelled.

“I cannot help it,” Morley replied. “Their com channel is too broad spectrum. It is easy to tap into, and the Prometheus has excellent hearing, as you well know.”

“Sorry,” Paige said.

“Perhaps I have a solution,” Morley said. “I could give you a lift back to the Vernacht mech so you can take care of the automaton, however you see fit. God would hardly hold it against you if you killed that creature.”

Clay turned and stared up at the flesh mech. He shivered at the thought of riding inside it.

“It’s not as horrible as it looks,” Paige said. “An experienced mech pilot would feel right at home.”

“Is your father any good at piloting that thing?” Clay asked.

“He can manage to get you over the hill and across the prairie to the Vernacht without crashing or getting either of you killed,” Paige said.

“You wouldn’t want to come with, would you?” Clay asked.

“I have work to do,” Paige said. “A lot of work to do.”

“Clay? Are you there?” Gibbons asked.

“I’m here,” Clay said. “Just deciding whether or not to ride in the flesh mech with a total stranger.”

“Prometheus,” Morley yelled down. “It has a name. Once named, an object should be addressed by its name. Otherwise, what is the point of names at all? And I am Morley Barnes. You know my name so we are no longer strangers.”

“It’s safe,” Paige said.

“I don’t know you or your father, so I take that statement with a grain of salt,” Clay said.

“Wise,” Paige said and let go of Clay. “Go. Limp over to the left heel. The Prometheus will take care of the rest.”

“Clay? The pilot is looking a little more alert than I am comfortable with,” Gibbons said.

“On the way, buddy,” Clay said.

“Thanks, pal,” Gibbons replied. “Hurry.”

Clay snapped his watch closed, replaced it in his vest pocket, then looked at Paige.

“What do you mean the Prometheus will do the rest if I go to the left heel?” Clay asked.

“You’ll see,” Paige replied. “If you’re going to go, then you better go. That storm is moving quickly this way.”

“Okay,” Clay said. He limped to the left heel of the flesh mech. “Right here?”

“Right there,” Paige said and smiled.

Clay started to smile back, but stopped the second about two dozen tendrils of flesh wrapped themselves around his body. He began to shout and swat at the tendrils, but they did not let go. He was lifted off his feet and carried up the back of the Prometheus’s leg to a mid-point in its thigh. Then a hole opened and he was swallowed up, lost to the innards of the flesh mech.

Fourteen

Clay found himself spat out, which was the only way he could describe it, right into the flesh mech’s cockpit. Coated in some kind of gelatinous goo, he tried to flick it off, but it refused to leave his body, and he only managed to smear it everywhere.

“My daughter does like to have her fun,” Morley said as he shut the cockpit hatch and picked up a harness from the pilot’s seat. “I could have just as easily picked you up and set you in here with one of the hands. It is considerably less messy.”

“So is birth from what I’ve been told,” Clay said.

Clay picked himself up and stared at the space around him. It was flesh, bone, organic. No metal in sight.

“Is this all bison?” Clay asked as he limped about the small cockpit, careful not to get tangled in the myriad of cables that snaked everywhere, all ending in junction points on a harness that fit around Morley’s body and head. He leaned closer to one of the cables and jumped back as it pulsed with the rhythm of a heartbeat. There was some sort of liquid inside each, and Clay had to swallow down a little bile as he watched it flow back and forth from the cockpit’s walls to Morley’s harness.

“Mostly bison,” Morley said. “Some components needed to be a little more refined.”

“Do I want to know?” Clay asked.

“Do you?” Morley responded.

“Probably not,” Clay said.

Morley walked the flesh mech away from the cave and out into the plains. He turned it in the direction of the Vernacht and Gibbons then relaxed into the harness.

“You are a trusting fellow,” Morley stated.

“Am I?” Clay asked. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but trusting isn’t one of them.”

“You have known me and my daughter for less than an hour and yet you willingly climbed aboard what must look like a monstrosity to you,” Morley said. “I could be a mad man and my daughter could be a flesh-hungry killer. You may be just the vessel we are looking for in order to complete my next experiment.”

Clay stopped studying the cockpit and looked at Morley. He raised an eyebrow and waited.

Morley glanced over and laughed.

“There is some normal caution in you, I see,” Morley said. “A little late, but good to know you have it.”

“If you lived my life, then you’d know we control absolutely nothing,” Clay said. “I roll with the punches and try to stay alive. That’s about as far as my caution goes. If you think being inside a mech made of bison meat is the strangest thing I’ve experienced, then you have no idea what the world out there is like.”

“I know the Midlands,” Morley said as the flesh mech continued its journey across the prairie. “I have lived here so long that I have realized I will never know the full extent of their strangeness. There are horrors across these plains that make the Perditions appear to be mere hiccups in the illusion we call sanity.”

Clay thought on those words for a minute then shook his head.

“You’ve been alone for a long time, haven’t you?” Clay asked.

“I have my daughter,” Morley stated.

“And I have Gibbons, but that doesn’t mean we both aren’t alone,” Clay replied.

Morley turned and studied Clay closely for a long while. Clay stood there, his ankle hurting, and let the older man complete his assessment without comment.

“You have known pain,” Morley said.

“That I have,” Clay replied.

“Yes,” Morley nodded. “I have been alone for a very long time.”

“Your wife?” Clay asked.

Morley shook his head, but did not answer.

Clay nodded.

He looked about the cockpit then said, “No jumpseat?”

“A what?” Morley asked.

“Jumpseat,” Clay said. “Usually a fold down seat where passengers can sit.”

“I have never heard of a jumpseat,” Morley said. “It is just a fold down seat? That is all?”

“With safety straps or a safety harness,” Clay said. “Keeps the passengers from getting pulverized during battle.”

“Do you usually have passengers when engaging in battle?” Morley asked.

“There is no usual to my life,” Clay said.

“I will add a jumpseat to the configuration as soon as we return to my home,” Morley said. “Perhaps I can see one for reference? Does the Vernacht have jumpseats?”

“No, construction mechs have regular seats,” Clay said. “But my mech has jumpseats. Too bad Mr. Bell has it right now.”

“That could change soon,” Morley replied. “I am sensing seismic evidence of his pursuit. He may reach the Vernacht before us.”

“What?” Clay exclaimed. “Then we need to move ass!”

“Yes, well, moving ass, as you say, is not my strength,” Morley replied. “While I do have complete control over this organic machine, I am not a mech pilot like yourself. The equipment’s limitations are my limitations, I am afraid.”

“Then let me pilot it,” Clay said.

He shivered at the thought, but being hooked into a harness made of bison flesh (he hoped) was better than letting Mr. Bell reach the Vernacht before them.

“Oh, no, I do not think that a good idea,” Morley said. “The organic interface may be too much for you to handle. It takes some getting used to and weeks of mental discipline to be able to handle the sensory stimuli.”

“I’m a mech pilot,” Clay said. “I’ve merged with AIs, had my mech’s arms ripped off and felt as if they were my own, been put through more mental torture than you can imagine, and I’m still standing.”

“Ah, yes, standing,” Morley said. “You are injured. If you were to pilot this mech, then it would become injured.”

“Why?” Clay asked.

“Because you would merge with the mech and your limitations would become its limitations,” Morley said. “Unless you go through weeks of disciplined training like I have.”

“Then you better get ready to fight,” Clay said. “Because that’s what’s going to happen if Mr. Bell reaches the Vernacht before we do.”

“Oh, no, I could not risk that,” Morley said.

The flesh mech slowed then came to a halt.

“What are you doing?” Clay snapped. “We can’t get there first if you stop!”

“We are not going that way anymore,” Morley said as the mech began to turn around. “I cannot risk damaging this machine. As much as I would delight in saving your AI friend, my life’s work is worth too much. The Prometheus is special.”

“How much is your life worth?” Clay asked. “Not your work, but your actual life? Because I’ll snap your neck if you don’t get moving right now.”

Morley looked at Clay in alarm. “Mr. MacAulay, that is hardly gentlemanly of you. I have shown you nothing but consideration and respect. To return it with hostility is just unfathomable.”

“Well, fathom it,” Clay said. “We’re going to get Gibbons, and there is no arguing that fact.”

Morley began to do what Clay said there was no doing, but the argument never left his lips. He hesitated then started the flesh mech moving once again.

“If you feel that passionately about it, then who am I to stop you?” Morley said. “But, as I have clearly stated, I will not risk damaging my machine to save your AI. You will need to exit here once we arrive and use the Vernacht for your fighting purposes.”

“The Vernacht is DOA,” Clay said. “It wouldn’t last ten seconds against my battle mech.”

“Then you already know the outcome and will not be disappointed when it occurs,” Morley said.

“Are you saying you don’t know how to repair this thing?” Clay asked, changing tactics.

“Excuse me? I said nothing of the sort,” Morley snapped. “I built this machine myself and know it inside and out.” He tapped his head. “Physically and mentally.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Clay said. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. Something shifted and wiggled against his back and he jolted forward.

“Mr. MacAulay,” Morley said, his eyes narrowed and angry. “Your juvenile attempts to bait me will not work. You cannot insult my professional ego in hopes that it will get me to change my mind regarding my machine. I will not risk it.”

“So you can’t repair it,” Clay said. “Just say that instead of all those other words.”

“I can and have made many needed repairs,” Morley responded with ever-increasing indignation. “Part of science and being a creator is trial and error. I have endured both to reach this point.”

“Right,” Clay said. “Then that’s that. Stop the mech and drop me off here.”

“Here? But you will have quite a ways to go on foot,” Morley said. “You will most certainly not reach the Vernacht in time. There is no question of that.”

“Sounds about right,” Clay said and nodded to the view outside the cockpit. “Tell Paige it was a pleasure to make her acquaintance. Sorry I couldn’t thank her myself for her brief hospitality.”

“I will,” Morley said as he opened the cockpit hatch, mucosal streamers falling from the edges in long, thick lines of wet yuck. “She appeared to like you.”

“Likewise,” Clay said and hobbled to the edge of the cockpit. He paused as Morley brought one of the fleshy fists up to cockpit level. “Too bad our time wasn’t longer. I could have taught you a lot about how mechs work. You’ve done a good job, but you obviously don’t know mechs.”

The flesh fist paused a couple meters below the cockpit edged. Clay waited then shook his head.

“Mr. Barnes, I can’t rightly jump down there,” Clay said. “Could you bring the fist closer for me to step onto?”

When Morley didn’t reply, Clay turned to address him again. He stared at the look of rage on the man’s face.

“Your impertinence should not be rewarded,” Morley growled.

“My grandmother used to tell me the same,” Clay said and shrugged.

“I imagine she was not the only one,” Morley said.

The cockpit hatch started to close, but Clay held out his hand, ready to block it.

“No you don’t,” Clay said. “You made your choice, Barnes. One of the basic rules of life is learning to live with the choices you make, good or bad. You made a bad one by rejecting my offer to fight and forcing me to fend for myself out on the plains. You need to accept that choice and live with it.”

“Your psychological tactics are transparent, Mr. MacAulay,” Morley said. “But you make a good point that your knowledge of mechs exceeds my own and perhaps you can teach me some of the finer points I may not be aware of.”

“Probably,” Clay said and smacked his hand on the cockpit hatch. “But I have a long walk ahead of me, and I’d like to be going now.”

“Stop this at once!” Morley shouted. “You have made your point! I will help save your AI friend by allowing you to merge with my machine and fight Mr. Bell and your former mech.”

“It’s still my mech,” Clay said. “No former about it. It was stolen from me and I aim to get it back.”

Morley mumbled and grumbled to himself then sighed heavily. He tugged at a point in the center of the flesh harness and it slid right off him, leaving stains and a trail of pinkish goo behind.

“Come over here and get strapped in,” Morley ordered. “You have a lot to learn and not much time to do it in.”

“I’m a fast learner,” Clay said as he approached the less than appealing pilot interface.

“I hope that is true,” Morley said. “If my machine is destroyed because of you, then your fate will be far worse than anything you can imagine.”

Clay really didn’t like the sound of that, but he let the comment go so he could concentrate on getting strapped in and familiar with the alien interface of the flesh mech.

Fifteen

It was a stumbling, bumbling, journey of slapstick comedy the rest of the way to the Vernacht.

The integration with the mech’s controls felt to Clay like having a wet something inserted right into his brain. Or possibly somewhere else. Clay wasn’t exactly sure where the flesh harness ended and he began. It became confusing and disorienting from the start.

But Clay had stated he was a mech pilot, and he couldn’t go back on that. He’d piloted plenty of different machines, and the one thing he always learned was that no matter how different they were, in the end they were mechs, and it was a matter of putting one foot in front of the other.

Gravity had something to say about that philosophy several times.

“You simply must walk,” Morley exclaimed for the dozenth time. “Walk, Mr. MacAulay. Walk!”

“I’m trying,” Clay said as he stumbled yet again and had to hold out a giant flesh fist to keep from crashing cockpit first into the grass. “The weight balance is all off in this thing.”

“That is because it is made of flesh, not metal,” Morley replied. “Metal mechs must have the weight distributed in such a way as to compensate for the mechanical components themselves. You are used to piloting something that is innately counterintuitive.”

“Says you,” Clay said. “I have a few words about how intuitive this thing is.”

“Stop thinking about it,” Morley said. “You do not think when you walk on your own legs. Do not think when walking this mech. It is best to let the integration happen. The machine will become a pure extension of yourself if you just let go and allow it to fully integrate. I have accomplished with flesh what could not be accomplished with metal. Full integration of man and machine.”

“That statement right there says you know nothing of mech history,” Clay replied. “Full integration was accomplished centuries ago.”

“And yet we see no current evidence of it,” Morley said. “Which tells me it was a failure.”

“Or it maybe wasn’t the best idea,” Clay said. “Things don’t always fail because they didn’t work. Sometimes they fail because they did work. Too well.”

“An interesting way of looking at it,” Morley responded. “Surprising coming from a pilot and not a scientist. You may have something there.”

Clay grunted in reply as he attempted to keep the flesh mech upright and moving. It wasn’t as simple as just walking. It wasn’t simple at all. He tried to let go and allow full integration with the flesh mech’s control interface happen, but his instincts kept him from committing. His gut was rebelling as much as it had back in the unholy town of Perdition Plains.

Except, as a dot appeared on the horizon, Clay knew he didn’t have the luxury of going with his gut. He needed to learn to pilot the flesh mech right away or he was going to not only lose Gibbons, but possibly his own life.

And Morley’s life, but Clay was only concerned about that on a basic level. The old guy was nice, but he was obviously off his rocker. His end was just a matter of time in the Midlands.

Clay felt a sharp pain in his head as the thought of Morley’s death crossed his mind. He shook it away, but it persisted until he took a deep breath and promised himself he’d get things under control and keep himself, Gibbons, and Morley alive. The feeling in his gut intensified, but it was preferable to the pain in his head.

An image of the Vernacht came up in Clay’s vision and he cried out.

“What is it?” Morley asked.

“I can see the Vernacht,” Clay said. “It’s like it’s being projected right onto my eyeball.”

“Oh, excellent,” Morley said. “That means your integration is deepening. The machine has accessed your ocular perceptions, and you are now seeing and sensing what it sees and senses. Can you smell the outside? Can you hear the approaching storm?”

Clay realized he could smell and hear the oncoming weather shift. The scent of impending rain and ozone from the far off lightning strikes filled his nose. The sound of not so distant thunder filled his ears.

He was able to shift his gaze without physically turning his head and had a quick slap of vertigo before his mind caught up to the new perspective. Far off, but coming closer with every second, was a thunderhead so tall and dark that it looked like a slice of night sky had been cut away and was falling to Earth.

“Clay?” Gibbons called out and Clay winced as the AI’s voice echoed in his head as well as the com in his ear. “Clay? I see a second mech approaching. It is coming from your direction. Is that you?”

“It’s me,” Clay said. “Kill the com, Gibbons. I can hear you through the flesh mech just fine.”

Gibbons made a sound like clearing his throat, despite not having a throat, and replied, “Flesh mech? Did you say flesh mech?”

“Yeah, I mentioned it before,” Clay said.

Gibbons was quiet for a split second. “Yep, you did. I guess I chose to ignore that at the time. Hard to ignore now.”

“You’ll have to see it to believe it,” Clay said. “All bison meat.”

“Mostly,” Morley corrected.

Clay ignored the comment, preferring not to think about the non-mostly parts.

“I’m still working out the kinks,” Clay said. “Can you see our mech yet?”

“Yes,” Gibbons replied, that time only in Clay’s head. “It is about to reach weapons range.”

“Power yourself down,” Clay said. “What kind of stealth decks does the Vernacht have?”

“It doesn’t,” Gibbons said. “It’s a construction mech, pal. There’s no place to hide. It’s processing capacity can barely handle me, let alone allow me to barricade myself behind ten kinds of firewalls with security redundancies.”

“That is not true,” Morley said.

“What? Who is that?” Gibbons asked.

“How are you talking to him?” Clay asked.

Morley only smiled. “While the Vernacht may not have stealth decks like you are used to, uh…”

“Gibbons,” Gibbons replied.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Morley said. “I am Morley Barnes. I look forward to working with you.”

“Get on with what you were saying,” Gibbons said. “Mr. Bell is only a few meters from being able to launch rockets, if he wants to.”

“Yes, quite,” Morley responded. “We should assume he will want to.”

“What? Rockets?” Clay asked.

“Yeah, rockets,” Gibbons said. “The battle mech has at least one. I finally got a handle on the sensors, and I detect at least one. Mr. Bell must not have figured out how to use it before he decided that plasma was his weapon of choice.”

“Great,” Clay said.

“But, as I was saying,” Morley interrupted, “the Vernacht does not have stealth decks in the way you are used to, but it does have secure data backup. It must in case of an accident and the mech is destroyed. Rebuilding its memory storage from scratch would be too expensive and time-consuming for an industry that abhors both expense and time.”

“Black box,” Gibbons said. “I can tuck into the black box. Mr. Bell can destroy this mech, but as long as you get the black box then I’m safe.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Morley said. “The compression rate for an AI of your caliber may not be compatible. You would need to begin the transfer now if you were to stand any chance of survival. You are on a countdown, Mr. Gibbons.”

“Just Gibbons,” Gibbons said. “And I’m always on a countdown. Have you met Clay? We don’t exactly live a normal life.”

“You could have left me as a dent in the Brazilian Empire, buddy,” Clay said. “I didn’t send for you.”

“Shut up,” Gibbons said. “We aren’t having this bullshit talk again.”

“Have we ever really had it?” Clay asked. “I mean, have we actually gone deep into the whys of why you rescued my ass?”

“The whys of why?” Gibbons sighed. “You realize I dumb down my language processors every time I talk to you, right? You know I have to lower myself to your level just to get half my points across, yeah?”

“Like hell you do,” Clay snapped.

The flesh mech moved into a slow jog.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding!” Gibbons exclaimed. “My processing power is vastly superior to your intellect! I get stupider with every interaction!”

“Stupider? Is that even a word?” Clay scoffed. “You get stupider. Whatever, Gibbons.”

The flesh mech broke into a brisk run.

“Stupider is a word,” Gibbons argued. “Not the most expressive of terms, but it fits you to a tee. If I used anything more complicated, then you’d miss the point.”

“Do you always bicker like this?” Morley asked.

“Stay out of this!” Clay and Gibbons barked.

“Oh, my,” Morley said.

The flesh mech was in a full on sprint, its meaty legs taking long strides as it raced across the prairie to the shape on the horizon. A shape that was being joined by a second.

“Listen, Gibbons, now is not the time to work out our problems,” Clay said. “And we have a lot. Any two people that spend as much time as we do together are going to have problems. That’s life.”

“But I’m not a people, pal,” Gibbons said. “And I don’t have a life. I’m an AI. I live in a mech or don’t live at all. Speaking of, I need to stop talking to you and get to transferring into the black box.”

“Hold on,” Morley said. “Something has occurred to me.”

Clay and Gibbons waited.

“Okay..?” Gibbons asked.

“You want to fill us in?” Clay prodded.

“What? Oh, yes, of course!” Morley exclaimed. “My apologies. It is just that when Mr. Gibbons stated he was not a person, although he said people, which is highly incorrect despite his insistence that he has superior language skills—”

“Get on with it!” Gibbons snapped. “I’ll let the mister part go if you just get to the point!”

“Oh, right, again, my apologies,” Morley said. “What I propose is that Gibbons not transfer into the black box, but transfer into the automaton that is with him in the cockpit.”

“The automaton that is fumbling around and bumping into everything right now? The automaton that looks like he might be damaged since he can’t seem to even find the door?” Gibbons asked. “Oh, yeah, shove me into that brain. Great.”

“The automaton may not have much intellectual programming, but its brain matrix easily has the capacity to not only hold Mr. Gibbons’ AI protocol, but it will allow Mr. Gibbons to, well, in his words, be a people for a time until we can transfer him back into your mech,” Morley said.

“You know I only said people because I was mocking Clay, right?” Gibbons responded. “I know it’s not the proper use of the word.”

“Oh, I wasn’t sure, not having much experience with AIs,” Morley said.

“How do we make this happen?” Clay asked, keeping the conversation from turning any farther than it already had. “How does Gibbons get into the automaton’s brain?”

“I will have to facilitate the transfer personally, Mr. MacAulay, while you fight off Mr. Bell,” Morley said.

“That’s not going to be easy since I can barely work this stupid flesh mech,” Clay said.

“Is that so?” Morley replied, smiling. “You seem to be doing just fine now.”

Clay started to argue then realized he was piloting the flesh mech in an all-out run without any hint of stumbling or bumbling.

“Huh,” he said. “Okay, so what are the weapons capabilities?”

“Weapons?” Morley asked. “For combat?”

“Yeah, that’s what weapons are used for,” Clay said.

“Yes, well, besides fists and feet, the flesh mech does not have any weapons,” Morley said. “But an experienced mech pilot such as yourself should be well versed in melee combat. Mr. Bell might have been a mech pilot at one point in his existence, but his transformation will have damaged a good amount of his skills. Especially since he does not have an AI inside the mech to assist him.”

“Melee?” Clay snapped. “Mr. Bell has rockets and plasma cannons! I can’t melee those!”

“I would advise a defensive strategy until you can get inside his offenses and fight him hand to hand,” Morley said.

“That’s your advice? Shit!” Clay shouted.

“Oh, stop being a wimp,” Gibbons said. “You can take this guy. The real worry is me. How do I know this transfer will work?”

“Oh, it will work,” Morley said.

“But you can’t know that,” Gibbons said. “Have you ever done this before?”

“Oh, of course not, that’s how I know it will work,” Morley said. “After all, I created the automatons and know their workings inside and out.”

Silence for a long while.

Then Gibbons said, “Clay…”

“I heard,” Clay said. “We’ll deal with that later. Now we get our fight on.”

Clay was a quarter of a kilometer from the Vernacht when Mr. Bell launched two rockets, one at the construction mech and one at the flesh mech.

“More than one rocket!” Clay and Gibbons shouted.

“Oh, my, this is so thrilling!” Morley exclaimed.

Sixteen

“Clay!” Gibbons yelled.

“I see them!” Clay yelled back.

He had one shot and it was a long one.

Clay raced the flesh mech across the prairie, closing the distance between him and the rocket in the blink of an eye. If he’d had the time to think about it, Clay would have marveled at the speed the flesh mech possessed. It rivaled, perhaps surpassed, his own.

But he didn’t have the time to think about it. He only had time to act and react.

Clay snatched the rocket out of the air and threw it at the one racing towards the Vernacht. It was a move that he’d used a hundred times before in one form or another, but never with the need for perfect accuracy. The rocket that was aimed at the Vernacht was only a couple seconds from impact. Clay needed to destroy it before it was close enough that the explosion from the two rockets would damage the Vernacht more than it already was.

The explosion was blinding. The flesh mech’s sensors tried to dim the intensity, but even with that assistance, Clay was too dialed in and integrated not to wince with pain as his eyes were overloaded.

But wince was all Clay did as he pushed the flesh mech faster, placing it directly between Mr. Bell and the Vernacht.

“Back off, power down, and get the hell out of my mech!” Clay yelled. He wasn’t surprised that his voice echoed out across the prairie. “I’m not going to tell you again, Bell!”

There was no response. Mr. Bell did not slow the battle mech. He plowed on, rushing right at Clay and the flesh mech, plasma cannons coming up, ready to fire.

“How much damage can this thing take?” Clay asked.

“How much damage can any body take?” Morley replied.

“That isn’t helping!” Clay snapped.

“As long as the integration matrix is intact, this mech can keep fighting,” Morley said. “Barring any mortal damage you may take.”

“Shields?” Clay asked.

“No,” Morley said. “Only the flesh it is made of. Which, if I do say so myself, is quite remarkable. I was able to harden the materials I took from the bison, as well as—”

“Don’t care!” Clay yelled as he sent the flesh mech into a dive, rolling under the first wave of plasma that came flying at him. “You can give me specs later!”

Clay came up and sent a hard right jab into the battle mech’s midsection. He knew his machine, so he didn’t expect the blow to do much damage, but it threw off the plasma cannons’ aim, sending the second wave of blasts well off target.

“Oh, please be careful with the Prometheus,” Morley whined.

“Trying to,” Clay snapped.

“I will need to be on the Vernacht to begin the transfer of Mr. Gibbons into the automaton,” Morley said.

“Busy right now,” Clay said as he tried to sweep the battle mech’s legs. Mr. Bell leaped the machine over the flesh mech’s leg, landing several meters back. “Dammit!”

“When Mr. Bell came to the area, he was an overconfident braggart,” Morley said with some venom. “He insisted on negotiating terms with the Perditions. As I well know, one does not negotiate terms with the Perditions.”

“No matter where you’re from,” Clay said. “The folks in charge aren’t fond of negotiating. That’s fairly universal.”

The belt guns on the battle mech came to life, and Clay swore under his breath. He prepared for the onslaught of slugs, but nothing happened after several seconds. No one had reloaded the belt guns, and Mr. Bell was using them purely out of either habit, instinct, or whatever programming his warped brain had. Clay knew he could use that against the bastard.

The flesh mech’s left fist dug into the soft earth of the prairie, scooping up a massive handful which Clay immediately threw at the battle mech. The thick, loamy dirt collided with the belt guns, instantly gumming them up. White then black smoke poured from the belt guns, then they burst into flame as the motors melted.

The battle mech plucked the burning belt guns from their moorings and threw them at Clay and the flesh mech. Clay easily dodged the attack, but was off balance enough that he couldn’t compensate when the battle mech came at him full speed. There was a crunch and sickening squish as the battle mech ducked its shoulder and slammed into the flesh mech’s chest.

“The sooner you can get me to the Vernacht, the sooner we can leave this battle and return to my home,” Morley said.

Even though he didn’t have the time to spare, since the flesh mech was currently falling onto its ass with the battle mech squarely on top of it, Clay shot a look of death at the man to his side.

“Back off, asshole,” Clay growled. “I’ll get you there when I get you there.”

He twisted the flesh mech and rolled the two machines across the ground, using the battle mech’s metal weight to propel them across the prairie, crushing and flattening the grasses to nothing.

A flash of lightning, followed by a crash of thunder only a second later, came close to blinding and deafening Clay.

“Adjust the goddamn sensors so that doesn’t happen again!” Clay yelled. His vision and hearing instantly dimmed to less intrusive levels.

The mechs rolled a few more meters before the battle mech was able to get the advantage and wrap an arm around the flesh mech’s arm and bring them to a halt. There was a horrible sucking sound as the battle mech used its weight as leverage to pull and tear the flesh mech’s arm out of the socket.

“SHIT!” Clay screamed as his right shoulder exploded with searing pain.

“Oh, dear,” Morley muttered as he hurried over to Clay and disconnected the flesh harness from Clay’s shoulder. “I may have dialed in the pain receptors a little too accurately.”

“Pain receptors?” Clay shouted. “Why the hell would you even have pain receptors?”

“It allows for more complete integration,” Morley said in a tone that conveyed his feelings on Clay’s intellect.

“Pilots shouldn’t feel pain unless they personally are in pain!” Clay yelled. “That’s the advantage of having a mech! It gets damaged, not the pilot!”

“Yes, well, I am a scientist, not a mech expert, so please excuse my misunderstanding of how the pilot and mech relationship operates,” Morley said, sounding wounded.

“Just shut up,” Clay said.

“Hey? Anyone coming or what?” Gibbons asked.

“You had better be joking!” Clay shouted.

Gibbons chuckled. “I am. I thought you should know that my sensors are picking up overheated servos in our mech’s knees. Both joints are not able to take much more pressure. Holcomb may have tried to repair the damage we did earlier with fleshy bits, but those bits aren’t holding up to the job.”

“Good to know,” Clay replied as he watched the battle mech toss the flesh mech’s arm out over the prairie. The limb flew across the plains until it was lost from sight. “Its arm strength doesn’t seem to be a problem.”

“No, those servos are fully functional,” Gibbons said. “Good luck.”

The battle mech brought a heavy fist down, and Clay gasped as the flesh mech shuddered under the attack. A status report streamed directly into his brain, and he saw that several muscle groups in the flesh mech’s torso had just been pulverized. Luckily, they were on the right side, which no longer had a limb, so Clay ignored the damage and swung out as hard and fast as he could with the flesh mech’s left arm.

The battle mech crumpled over onto its right side as Clay demolished the right knee joint. Sparks erupted from the destroyed servos, and the fleshy bits used to repair the battle mech began to smoke and smolder right away. Clay set the flesh mech’s knees into the battle mech’s midsection, knocking it completely off, sending it tumbling to the side.

Clay pumped his legs out and down, flipping the flesh mech up onto its feet. He spun about, raised a foot, then brought it down into the middle of the battle mech’s back. Armor plating crumpled and the struts underneath bent then snapped as Clay repeated the motion again and again.

“Hey, Clay?” Gibbons called. “That’s still our mech, pal. Maybe go a little easier on it?”

“To hell with that,” Clay said.

He tucked a fleshy toe under the battle mech and flipped it onto its damaged back then stomped hard into the machine’s waist, cracking the hip joints. The battle mech’s legs shot out straight then went limp as they lost power. Clay laughed hard and reached for the battle mech’s cockpit hatch.

A metal fist collided with the flesh mech’s left knee. Clay snarled as the leg went out from under him. He managed to keep the flesh mech from fully collapsing and steadied the machine with its one arm. The battle mech went in for another attack, but Clay ducked backwards and the metal fist whooshed by, missing its mark.

Clay brought the flesh mech back up onto its feet, its left knee having sustained only minimal damage from the previous blow.

“You! Are! Sitting! In! My! Seat!” Clay roared as he snapped the hatch off, tossed it aside, and reached inside the cockpit to pluck Mr. Bell free of the machine. “MY SEAT!”

The man, or whatever he was, became nothing but pulp as Clay squished him in the flesh mech’s fist. Fluids and hunks of Mr. Bell fell to the ground just as the sky opened up and rain came down in a torrent that turned visibility into a theory. Clay lifted his one bloody fist high into the air, the motion punctuated by a flash of lightning and simultaneous crash of thunder.

“Dude,” Gibbons said. “You won. Chill.”

Clay took several deep breaths then shook his head. He looked about the landscape that was quickly turning to mud. It had a surreal quality to it, and Clay almost felt as if the fight had been nothing but a dream. An intense, overpowering dream, bordering on nightmare.

“I’m going to be sick,” Clay said then threw up all over the cockpit floor.

“Yes, that would be the added endorphins pumping through you,” Morley said. “A side effect of integration, I am afraid. In order for my organic machine to work, I had to install an endocrine system to keep the muscles and flesh from atrophying. Stabilizing the rot was simple, I had perfected that long ago, but muscles must still be driven to perform and synthetic adrenaline, noradrenaline, and even dopamine circulate throughout the tissues. I may look into including enkephalin to regulate the pain response. I see that is obviously needed now.”

Lightning struck the downed battle mech and more smoke began to pour from the broken machine.

“Hello? I think we’re on a time table now,” Gibbons said. “The pilot in here is sort of freaking out.”

“Ah, yes, that would be because of the storm,” Morley said. “The automatons have always been wary of electrical storms. Understandable considering their creation.”

“I don’t want to know what that means,” Gibbons said. “What I want is out of the Vernacht. Can we make that happen?”

“In this storm? Oh, heavens no,” Morley said. “But we can bring the Vernacht back to my home and process the transfer there. It will be much safer using my equipment than trying to rig a hookup out in the field like this.”

“Then let’s get going,” Gibbons said then paused. “Uh…how?”

“I will drag you back to the cave,” Morley said. “I can manage that easily enough if Mr. MacAulay will relinquish the controls.”

“Gladly,” Clay gasped as he undid the harness and fell onto his hands and knees. He vomited a couple more times then struggled to his feet. “All yours, bud.”

Clay managed to crawl to the side of the cockpit and rest his back against the unfortunately moist wall. He ignored the slickness and closed his eyes, his body completely drained of all energy.

“Gibbons?” he whispered. “Gibbons?”

There was a quiet squawk in Clay’s ear.

“Coms back online,” Gibbons said. “You good, Clay?”

“I’m good, just exhausted,” Clay said. “I think I understand what full integration with a mech does to a person.”

“Now you know how I feel,” Gibbons said, “and I don’t have a body.”

“Not yet, Mr. Gibbons,” Morley said. “Not yet, but soon. Very soon.”

“I’m gonna rest my eyes for a minute or two, okay?” Clay sighed.

“You do that,” Gibbons said. “I’ll wake you if things get weird.”

Clay chuckled for half a second then was out.

Seventeen

The cool, wet rag felt so good across Clay’s forehead. He sighed and smiled before opening his eyes. He wasn’t disoriented. He knew he was in the Barneses’ cavern system. The smell of damp mixed with earth and also partially rotted flesh was a dead giveaway. There was also the sound of Morley whistling some tuneless song in some other part of the cavern that added to the obvious.

So Clay was perfectly prepared for Paige to be the one wetting the cloth and applying it to his forehead and cheeks. What he wasn’t prepared for was the blank face of the Vernacht’s automaton pilot hovering over him instead. The sallow skin and sunken cheeks, dead eyes and blueish lips. Not the sight Clay expected when his tired eyes cracked open.

“What the hell?” Clay exclaimed as he bolted upright and shoved the automaton away. “Get the hell away from me!”

“Calm down, pal,” the automaton said in a flat voice. “It’s me. Gibbons. I’m stuck inside this rotting meat bag.”

Clay eyed the thing cautiously. Yes, that had been the plan, to put Gibbons in the pilot, but the automaton didn’t look like it had a consciousness inside it; it looked just as dead as it had the first time Clay had laid eyes upon it.

“Tell me something only Gibbons would know,” Clay said.

“When you fart in your sleep, you giggle then tell yourself you’re a bad, bad boy,” the automaton replied.

“What? I don’t do that!” Clay snapped.

“Yeah, pal, you do,” the automaton responded. “But that’s a bad example since you’re asleep when you do it and I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it to you when you’re awake.”

“Then why use that as something only Gibbons would know?” Clay snapped.

“Because I’m the only one that knows it,” the automaton said. The “duh” was implied despite the tone of voice being flat and void of any personality or inflection. “You said to say something only Gibbons would know. Only I know that.”

“Something only we’d both know, asshole,” Clay growled.

The automaton paused. For a very long time.

“You still in there?” Clay asked.

“Hold on, hold on,” the automaton said. “I’m thinking. This brain doesn’t process as fast as my AI matrix.”

“Okay, fine, feel free to take your time,” Clay said. “It’s not like we have a town of weirdos to deal with or a mech to fetch and repair.”

“Oh, I already fetched our mech,” the automaton said. “You’ve been asleep all night. Totally missed the storm.”

“All night?” Clay asked. “No one came looking?”

“It was a bitch of a storm,” the automaton said. “Paige says that the folks in charge must have called off their dogs. Literally. Electrical storms that size will fry the tweener hounds. It can fry me too. Won’t fry the flesh mech. Something about the flow of the current and how the mech is naturally insulated. Which doesn’t make a lick of sense, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you that,” Clay insisted. “I asked you to tell me something only Gibbons and I would know. Do it now or I get up from this cot and kick your ass.”

“Oh, don’t even try, pal,” the automaton laughed. It sounded like a person coughing and choking at the same time. “This body would break you. Trust me.”

He stuck his finger in the air, looked at it for a moment, then set it back down.

“That time on the southern border of Southwest MexiCali,” he exclaimed. “You know, where that cantina was? We came stumbling out of that jungle, only fumes left in the power cells, and nearly crushed the place. Had no idea it was there until the sun came up and we saw how close we’d come to smashing it flat. You remember what you did first thing?”

“Man, that was the time I’d been drinking that jungle hooch, wasn’t it?” Clay replied. “I pissed all over the cantina’s roof, laughing the whole time until the bartender sleeping inside came out and started shooting his scatter gun up at me.”

“And you yelled that your pecker had better aim than he did with that gun,” the automaton said. “That was hilarious until he went back inside and called the local militia that just happened to have a dozen mini-mechs at their disposal. We ran until we lost them then had to bury the mech in foliage until we could drill deep enough and siphon off some geothermal.”

“I didn’t sleep for three days as I waited for the militia to catch up to us,” Clay said. He smiled and stood up, offering his hand. “It’s good to see you, Gibbons.”

“You aren’t seeing me,” Gibbons said and shook the offered hand. “This is just a temporary meat bag, pal. I’m a mech AI, and I need to get back into our mech as soon as possible.”

There was a massive crash from deep inside the cave then a string of curses that almost made Gibbons’ dead flesh blush. Almost.

“Yeah, we better go help,” Gibbons said. “Paige tends to break things when she gets frustrated. Follow me.”

Clay looked around and saw he was in an actual room. Wooden floor, wooden walls, a wooden door right in front of him. Not cave. At least not until they left the room, and he found it was a simple hut built inside the gigantic main cavern. There were a couple dozen more huts set about the place, some looking ancient and some looking fairly new. All of them were covered in dirt and streaked with God knew what.

Clay quickly found out why as a stream of putrid liquid squirted down from a huge scaffolding and splatted between his boots.

“Sweet bloody hell,” Clay cursed as he put his hand over his nose. “What the hell is that?”

“Grease made from congealed bison fat,” Gibbons said. “Not rendered down, but left to rot and congeal. Paige says it works better. That’s why it smells so bad.”

“Nothing works on this damned thing!” Paige yelled down from the top of the scaffolding which reached about to the battle mech’s chest. Bracing was shoved against the mech on all sides, keeping it from toppling over. “I don’t know how Holcomb was able to get his crew to retrofit this machine with organic parts! Nothing I try is compatible!”

“I think it was luck,” Clay called up to her. “When I fought the thing, I could tell it was about to fall apart. It wouldn’t have lasted much longer even if I hadn’t gotten the upper hand.”

“Speaking of hands,” Morley said as he stepped from a side cave. “I have repaired the Prometheus’s arm. It is not an exact match and will need work over the next few days, but I was hoping you might pilot it again for a test run.”

“The guy just woke up, Barnes,” Gibbons said. “How about we let him eat and take care of business before shoving him out of the cave in the big meat bag? That work for your schedule?”

“Of course, of course,” Morley said, wiping his bloody hands on an even bloodier rag, accomplishing nothing but smearing the blood back and forth across his palms. “I’ll show you to the kitchen.”

“Do you eat?” Clay asked.

“Not sure,” Gibbons responded. “Hey, Barnes, do I eat?”

“Yes, but you may not like your diet,” Morley replied. “It is fashioned after the Perditions’ diet. But, I suppose since you have never had a body and needed sustenance before then you may not know the difference.”

“What difference?” Clay asked as they were led from the main cavern and into one of the other huts. The smell that hit him made his mouth water and stomach revolt at the same time. “Is that coffee?”

“Chicory,” Morley said.

“What else do I smell?” Gibbons said. “My stomach just grumbled. That’s what it’s called, right?”

“Ah, yes, you have smelled the aged meat,” Morley said. He glanced at Clay. “I have salted meat for you, Mr. MacAulay. It is fresh, and I keep it sealed over here, so you need not worry about any contamination.”

“Contamination from what?” Clay asked.

Then he saw the “aged meat.” An entire leg of bison hung in the corner. It was stripped of hide, but there was plenty of fur on it in the way of mold. Clay knew there were tons of towns that had meat cellars where they aged pork or beef. The Brazilian Empire was known for their varieties and quality. This was not like that at all.

“That’s rotten,” Clay said, taking a cautious step forward to verify. The wriggling under the flesh told him he’d hit the mark. “What is it with the Midlands and rotten meat?”

“I would say that is a bit of a generalization,” Morley said. “It is only this region that requires a specialized diet. Perdition Plains is not like other towns. The citizens are…peculiar.”

“Tell us something we don’t already know,” Gibbons said. His stomach growled loud enough for Clay to raise an eyebrow. “What? Give me a break. This is my first meal like ever, pal.”

“Mr. MacAulay, your food is here,” Morley said as he popped open a barrel and plucked out several large hunks of perfectly cured meat. He set them on a plate and held it out. “Here you go. There is a table outside. Along with a water barrel you can dip out of if you are thirsty. I imagine you will be shortly after eating that meat. I’m dehydrating just looking at it.”

Clay didn’t let Morley’s words pass him by as he took the offered plate. “My food? What about you?”

“Yes, well, my diet is specialized,” Morley said. “As I said, this region requires it.”

“You’re going to eat that?” Clay asked, nodding at the rotten leg of bison. “Why in the hell would you?”

“How about you step outside and have a seat, Mr. MacAulay,” Morley said. “I will serve Mr. Gibbons and join you both as soon as I have prepared plates for myself and Paige.”

“Sure,” Clay said and retreated from the kitchen.

He quickly found the table outside and set his plate down. Clay ladled some water into a mug that hung from the side of the water barrel then took a seat as Gibbons came out, his face close to his plate, nose breathing deeply.

“This is going to get weird, isn’t it?” Gibbons asked as he sat across from Clay. “You’re going to freak out if I eat this, right?”

“I won’t freak out,” Clay replied. “But I probably won’t ask to try a bite.”

“Goddammit!” Paige shouted.

“Daughter? Paige, my dear?” Morley called out as he walked from the kitchen to the table, a plate of spoiled bison in each hand. “Lunch is served.”

“Lunch?” Clay asked.

“Yeah, you slept through the night and the morning,” Gibbons said. “I only said night before so you didn’t feel lazy.”

“Why would you do that?” Clay asked.

Gibbons shrugged. “Empathy? That’s what meat bags do, right? Feel empathy?”

“Do you feel empathy, Mr. Gibbons?” Morley asked, his eyes excited.

“Not really,” Gibbons said. “Maybe I will after I eat.”

“Is that the six month or eight month?” Paige asked as she joined them, slapping a pair of work gloves onto the table next to her plate. She sat down, straddling the bench, and plucked a chunk of bison up and sniffed it. “Father, this is the four month. Where is the eight month?”

“I needed the eight month for some repairs,” Morley said sheepishly. “The six month is in the larder. It needs to age to replace the eight month.”

“So we get four month until then?” Paige snapped. “Lovely.”

Clay pushed his plate away. He looked at Gibbons, who was busy shoving as much rotten meat into his mouth as fast as he could, and shivered.

“Someone tell me what’s going on,” Clay said. “Why are you eating meat that most folks would avoid, you know, because it will kill you?”

“Yes, well, you see, Mr. MacAulay, just like the Perditions—” Morley started.

“We are nothing like the Perditions,” Paige grumbled around a mouthful of meat.

“Not in character, no,” Morley said. “But biologically, we are very similar, although the Perditions are much, much older.”

“Biologically similar how?” Clay asked. “What the fuck are you people?”

“Language!” Morley hissed. “I have invited you into my home. The least you can do is act civilized while we eat.”

“Yeah, pal, act civilized,” Gibbons said as a squirming maggot dropped from between his lips. “Hey there, little guy, where ya think you’re going?” He plucked it up and popped it into his mouth. “Clay, you really gotta try this. It’s delicious. I don’t have much to compare it to, but I’ll be eating more, that’s for sure.”

“Gonna pass, buddy,” Clay said. He looked at Paige. “You want to fill me in or is this conversation going to take all day and all night?”

“Lazaroti,” Paige said. “We’re lazaroti. Me, my father, the Perditions, everyone that lives in Perdition Plains.”

Clay blinked a few times then stood up and jumped back from the table. Yet again, he went for his missing pistol then his missing knife. He swore and looked about for a weapon, any weapon, he could use to defend himself as he shouted, “Ghouls? You’re ghouls? Son of a bitch!”

“Lazaroti?” Gibbons asked mid-chew. “Hold on. This slow brain is accessing its database. Lazaroti, lazaroti, lazaroti… Oh… Damn…”

“Ghoul is the pejorative,” Morley said, his face filled with contempt. “It is a bigoted term from a time long gone by. Lazaroti are merely a sub-section of humanity that has evolved differently due to a genetic anomaly that once afflicted the entire human race because of a rampant virus.”

“Don’t call us ghouls,” Paige said as she took a bite and chewed it casually. “It’s a dick thing to say.”

“Language,” Morley said. “Civilized while we eat. It separates us from the—”

“Baser animals of our kind,” Paige interrupted and finished for her father. “I know.”

“Yet I still must remind you,” Morley said. He smiled and nodded at Clay. “Please, Mr. MacAulay, rejoin us. I can assure you that we are no danger to you.”

“I might be,” Gibbons said. “Sometimes ghouls eat living flesh. You smell good, Clay. Mighty good.”

“Mr. Gibbons, stop that,” Morley said. “Lazaroti do not eat living flesh. Our ancestors did millennia ago, yes, but our genetics have evolved so that we only eat dead meat. Preferably aged and spoiled for several months, but we can eat day old meat if we are forced to. Only to survive. It is not palatable, to say the least.”

“To say the least,” Clay said. “Cooking it is out of the question, am I right?”

“You are correct,” Morley said. “Putting flame to food would make it inedible to us.”

Clay hesitated then sat back down, his eyes locked onto Morley’s. Gibbons smacked his lips and looked down at his empty plate.

“More, please,” he said.

“Of course, how silly of me,” Morley said and stood up. He took Gibbons’ plate. “Your body isn’t used to the intense thought processes going on. You need brain food!”

He chuckled to himself, muttering “brain food” over and over as he left the table and went back to the kitchen.

Clay forced himself to look at Paige. She had a sly smirk on her face and was busy looking back at him as she picked at her food.

“You want to know why we don’t look like walking corpses like the townsfolk or the Perditions,” Paige stated.

“It crossed my mind,” Clay said.

“Because we’re alive,” Paige said. “They are too, sort of, but not like us. Most of those townsfolk are over a hundred years old. The Perdition siblings are even older. Way older.”

“That’s possible?” Clay asked.

“No big deal,” Gibbons said. “An AI can live forever if I have the proper system.”

“Sure it’s possible,” Paige said, ignoring Gibbons. “They just have to eat human meat regularly. You didn’t happen to hear or see anything while you were in town, did you? Someone screaming and begging? They like to make a show of it.”

Clay gulped and thought back on his unfortunate night in Perdition Plains.

“Yeah, I did,” Clay said.

“They find strangers and keep them penned up,” Paige said. “Haul them out every few nights and butcher them in the streets. That’s the only time they eat fresh flesh. Humans have to be consumed alive for their life force to be transferred.”

“Sweet God,” Clay whispered.

“Don’t know if the Lord has anything to do with it,” Paige said.

“Why didn’t they eat me or put me in their pens?” Clay asked.

“You’re an experienced mech pilot,” Paige said.

Clay frowned then thought he got it. “Like Mr. Bell,” he responded. “They were going to make me eat rotten meat then turn me into a Mr. Bell.”

“Not quite,” Paige said. “Mr. Bell is like Gibbons here.” She nodded at the automaton body. “Built for one thing. They left Mr. Bell’s brain intact, upgraded his physical self with some mechanical modifications, a reverse of what they did to your mech, then stripped his consciousness of all free will, programmed him to do their bidding, and handed him your mech.”

“What were they going to do to me then?” Clay asked.

“Make you more like Holcomb,” Paige said. “Make you one of their kind. It’s a slow process, one that requires constant consumption of spoiled meat, but it can be done.”

“But you said this is a genetic thing,” Clay said. “How do they know I have the DNA to become one of them?”

Paige frowned and shrugged. “Everyone does. The virus was species-wide. At one point, the entire human population of the world was infected. Viruses alter DNA. It used to be a lot worse, believe me.”

Gibbons looked from Clay to Paige then back to Clay.

“She didn’t answer why she looks normal and not like a cadaver,” Gibbons said. “She’s dancing around the subject.”

“Let’s just say that we used to look like them,” Paige said. “A long time ago. But Father found a way for us to be young again. Or relatively young. Father ages faster than I do.”

“Dancing,” Gibbons said.

“We’re not a threat to you, Clay,” Paige said. “I’m going to fix up that mech of yours and get you on your way. No need for a healthy man like you to be stuck in a place of death like this.”

“You’re pretty healthy too,” Clay said. “Why not leave? You could fit right in anywhere you want. Might be hard for you to eat out, but there are stranger folks in the world.”

“Clay MacAulay? Are you trying to be my hero?” Paige asked.

“Wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” Clay replied.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Gibbons said.

“Not cool, buddy,” Clay said. “Just eat your—”

“No, I’m actually going to be sick!” Gibbons announced as he stood up and rushed from the table.

He made it about ten steps before his body voided itself. Gibbons stood there, his trousers a mess, then turned back and looked at Clay, completely helpless.

“Oh, wow,” Clay said, trying not to laugh. “Uh, Gibbons, I think you had an accident.”

“It’s nasty!” Gibbons cried. “What the hell just happened to me? Why does it stink? What is going on down there?”

“You just pooped your pants,” Clay said and burst out laughing. “Welcome to having a body.”

“Having a body sucks!” Gibbons shouted. “I want to be a mech again! Please! Get me out of this meat bag!”

Clay laughed and laughed. He finally got it under control and looked at Paige. She wasn’t laughing, but her smirk had grown considerably.

“What?” Clay asked.

“He’s your AI, not mine,” Paige said. “You get to clean him up.” She stood and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I have a mech to work on so your friend can get out of that meat bag.”

She walked off towards the battle mech, making sure to take a wide berth around Gibbons. Clay watched her go then shifted his focus onto the figure standing there with messy trousers. He sighed, got up, and walked over to his friend.

“Come on, let’s clean you up,” Clay said, taking short breaths through his mouth. “I’m sure we can find something else you can wear.”

Clay led Gibbons towards the hut they’d come out of earlier.

“Here you go, Mr. Gibbons,” Morley said as he came out of the kitchen, oblivious to everything that had just occurred. “Hey, where did everyone go? And what is that smell?”

Eighteen

The candle flickered in its holder, the light playing on the wall of the hut as Clay lay wide awake on the cot, his hands behind his head. Gibbons slept on the floor, snoring loudly. Clay had insisted they find him a cot, but he said he wouldn’t know the difference and the floor was fine. Clay suspected Gibbons was afraid he’d have another accident and mess the cot.

Lunch had turned into dinner, which Gibbons politely refused, once again, in Clay’s estimation, due to his fear he’d have another accident. Clay had eaten salted meat, drank plenty of water, but hadn’t grilled the Barneses further about who or what they were. They may have been lazaroti, like the Perdition Plains residents, but they were certainly not ghouls. He felt no need to insult them since they had saved his ass and were being gracious hosts.

Not to mention that Paige was spending a lot of time and energy fixing up the battle mech. She was also using up almost every curse word known to man and when she’d run out of original ones she began to invent them.

“Cock knocking dork bugger turd snot!” Paige shouted from the main cavern.

Clay flicked open his pocket watch and saw it was three in the morning. He hadn’t been able to sleep a wink since he’d retired to the hut, and he didn’t expect he would the rest of the night, so he sat up, slid on his boots, and decided to see what exactly was causing the call of cock knocking dork bugger turd snot.

“You should get some sleep,” Clay said as he left the hut and approached the scaffolded battle mech. “You’re going to hurt yourself or fall off that scaffolding, if you don’t rest.”

“I’m not like you, Mr. MacAulay,” Paige replied. “I only need sleep every few days.”

“Is that a difference between you and the Perdition Plains people?” Clay asked. “Can I call them people? No offense, but are lazaroti people?”

“They’re people,” Paige said as she threw a wrench into a large tool box and stepped back from her frustrating work. “I wouldn’t go so far and call the Perditions people. Some of the townsfolk aren’t so bad, they just got mixed up in the wrong business and don’t know how to get out.”

“I can see that,” Clay said as he began to climb the scaffolding. Once up to Paige’s platform, he stood for a while with his hands on his hips and studied her work. “I have no idea what you’re trying to do here, but I appreciate the effort.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea what I’m doing either,” Paige said. “But thank ya kindly anyway.”

“We need Holcomb on this,” Clay said. “He supervised the first repairs, he could do it again.”

“That is not an option,” Paige said. “Holcomb is the Perditions’ man. He isn’t strictly evil, but he won’t go against that family no matter what argument you present.”

“Who says I was going to present an argument?” Clay laughed. “I was thinking of taking the flesh mech into town and kidnapping his ass. He fixes my mech and we have two mechs, including the flesh mech. Then we stomp on into Perdition Plains and squish the hell out of the folks in charge. Cut the head off the beast and watch it die.”

“I applaud your optimism,” Paige said, giving him a look before continuing, “but you are sadly misguided…”

“What is it?” Clay asked as Paige trailed off.

“Two mechs,” Paige said. She smacked her forehead. “Why am I bothering to try to reinvent the damn wheel?”

She started to rip off the flesh parts that she had managed to attach then yanked her hands back.

“No, leave those there,” she said more to herself than to Clay. “They’re holding things together. For now.”

She quickly scrambled down the scaffolding. Clay watched her go, confused as to what she was talking about. When Paige was on the ground, and halfway across the cavern floor, she stopped and looked over her shoulder.

“What are you still doing up there?” she asked. “Come on. We need to get this done before dawn. If we’re lucky, they haven’t come for it yet, but I can guarantee that when the sun comes up there will be a crew on its way.”

“On its way where?” Clay asked.

The look Paige gave him could not be mistaken for anything other than, “Are you freaking kidding me, you moron?”

When Clay didn’t move, Paige sighed and actually said, “The Vernacht.”

“What about it?” Clay asked. “Isn’t it already here? Your father said he’d drag it back and transfer Gibbons that way.”

“Right, you were passed out,” Paige said. “I forgot. No, the Vernacht isn’t here. Father had to do the transfer in the field. The storm made the ground too muddy, and the Vernacht was sinking into the muck. We got your mech back here, but the Vernacht wasn’t going anywhere. Now the ground should have soaked up all that precipitation. We can drag the Vernacht back here and piece it out for parts. Your mech needs metal, not flesh.”

“But the Perdition folks will want the Vernacht back too, and they’ll come at first light to get it,” Clay said once everything clicked into place in his head. “This is a night raid.”

“This is a night raid,” Paige said.

“I love night raids,” Clay said and hurried down the scaffolding. “You driving the flesh mech or do you want me to?”

“If we want to do this as fast as possible without any screw ups then I better drive,” Paige said. “You get to hook the chains to the Vernacht.”

Clay blinked a couple of times then laughed. “You’re good,” he said. “I can see why living here in this cave is preferable to living with those brain dead ghouls back at—Sorry, not ghouls. Lazaroti. Preferable to living with those lazaroti back in town.”

“They’re ghouls,” Paige said as she leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t tell my father I said that, but it disgusts me to think I’m even closely related to their kind at all. I prefer to think we’re the true lazaroti and they’re just corpses in motion.”

“Good way of looking at it,” Clay said.

“Come on,” Paige said and tugged at his vest. “We’re losing night. It’s going to take us until dawn to get the chains hooked up. We’re in a race now.”

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” Clay asked, seeing the obvious pleasure on Paige’s face.

Paige started to protest then shrugged. “Yeah, I kind of am,” she admitted. “Come on.”

They rushed through a side passage until they came to a smaller, but no less impressive, cavern that housed the flesh mech. Clay looked around, marveling at the cavern space.

“Underground lakes,” Paige said. “That’s Father’s theory. These caverns were underground lakes that were buried deep until billions of years of erosion created the plains and the caverns revealed themselves for the first time. Another billion years and people found them. Probably not until after the second apocalypse. The landscape has changed a lot since the first fall of this land’s civilization.”

“Any issues with flooding?” Clay asked. “I’d think a place like this would be right where the surface water goes.”

“It does,” Paige said. “But to caverns in the far back. The system angles downward. We’re up in the dry areas.”

“Good to know,” Clay said. He studied the mech briefly, puzzled by something.

“What?” Paige asked.

“Is that… Nah, never mind,” Clay replied.

Paige stepped to the flesh mech’s leg and placed a hand on it. She was instantly swallowed up and lost from sight. Clay shuddered, knowing exactly what that felt like. A moment later, the flesh mech shifted and crouched low, its hand extended for Clay to climb up onto.

It wasn’t until Clay was level with the cockpit that he realized the flesh mech had both arms again. He started to say something, but Paige cut him off.

“My father is a genius,” Paige said without looking at him. She was busy strapping herself into the flesh harness and doing what Clay guessed was the equivalent of checking systems. “I’m the real mechanic in the family, sure, able to do anything with anything, but when it comes to the flesh, my father will always rule. He can connect tissues faster than anyone living.” She finally looked up at Clay, her smirk in place. “Or not living.”

“Good to know,” Clay said as he climbed into the cockpit and the hatch closed behind him. He shivered at the wet, sucking sound the hatch made as it fit into place.

Clay found the bone and flesh jumpseat that had been added and he strapped in. He wasn’t exactly comfortable with the material used for the straps, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Secretly, despite being a mech pilot himself, he was glad Paige had decided to pilot the flesh mech. He had no intention of becoming one with the giant hunk of meat ever again.

“So,” Clay began as Paige set the flesh mech to moving. She navigated several piles of flesh parts and a few more piles of old equipment that looked like they were barely more than shells of rust with nothing of substance underneath. “If you are such a good mechanic, able to do anything to anything, then why are we salvaging the Vernacht for parts?”

“I’m good, but not a miracle worker,” Paige said. “My father can meld flesh and metal, as can I, but on a smaller scale. Like I said, he is the master of tissue. I’m an excellent mechanic, but your mech is too large. I’ve never worked on something of its scale before.”

“Holcomb didn’t seem to have much of a problem,” Clay said.

The flesh mech stomped its way out of the cavern, into a long passageway, then out into the open air of the prairie night. Clay longed for stars, but all there was above the flesh mech was the persistent blanket of clouds. It was dark enough that Clay felt them more than he saw them. In fact, he didn’t see much of anything as Paige turned the mech and piloted it in the direction Clay assumed the Vernacht lay.

Once they had gone a good half a kilometer, Clay repeated, “Holcomb didn’t seem to have much of a problem.”

“I heard you,” Paige said. “It takes slightly more concentration to pilot a flesh mech than one of your metal machines.”

“That’s a bit of an assumption,” Clay said.

“Not really,” Paige said. “I’ve studied mechs. Lots of them. All styles and models. The one advantage a battle mech like yours has is the AI. It can handle systems for you. All you have to do is not fall over.”

“If you’re trying to be insulting, you’re doing a right good job,” Clay said.

“Just like you questioning my mechanic’s skills,” Paige said. “We all have strengths, we all have weaknesses, we all have blind spots.”

“I’ll bet you can tell me just what all of mine are,” Clay said. The jumpseat was uncomfortably moist and he shifted in it, not wanting to know what might be soaking into his clothes.

“You are easy,” Paige said. “Your strengths, weaknesses, and blind spots are all the same thing. You’re a born mech pilot. You live it, breathe it, walk it. If we’d never met, and I knew absolutely nothing about you, and, say, you walked into a saloon, I’d be able to pick you out as a pilot in an instant.”

“Mech pilots are a rare thing,” Clay said. He thought back on his experiences back in Northeast MexiCali. “Getting rarer by the day.”

“I told you I know my mechs,” Paige said. “I’ve done my homework. Your swagger and overconfidence is a dead giveaway.”

“Swagger?” Clay asked. “When have you seen me swagger? You barely know me.”

“You are nothing but swagger,” Paige said. “I’ve seen it before on plenty of men and women. That overconfidence that you are secure in your place in life, that you know who you are and the rest of us are all just a little sad because we’ll never know ourselves the way you know yourself.”

“You are way off the mark, Paige,” Clay said. He liked how her name rolled of his tongue. Sharp, but regal, in a strange way. Just like the woman the name belonged to. Clay shook his head. “I think you may have grossly misread me.”

“I haven’t,” Paige said. “I’ve been in a lot of minds. I know how they work.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Clay laughed. “Are you one of those fabled psychics? The kind my great-grandmother used to tell scary stories about?”

“Psychic? No,” Paige said. “I wish it were that simple.”

“Nothing ever is,” Clay said. “But I still say you have misjudged me. You’d laugh if you knew my story.”

“We have a little time,” Paige said. “Fill me in.”

“I wish it were that simple,” Clay said.

“Touché,” Paige replied.

The inside of the cockpit glowed with an eerie pink light. Outside, it was nothing but a murky blackness.

“How can you see?” Clay asked. “You have no spots or running lights. No heads-up displays or scanners.”

“Have you forgotten how this thing works already?” Paige asked. “Maybe I did overestimate your place as a mech pilot.”

“Just answer the question,” Clay said.

“Full integration,” Paige said. “I see what it sees, it sees what I see, we are one.”

“How very Old Age of you,” Clay replied. “So it’s the visual overlays?”

“That’s how it would seem to you,” Paige said. “To me, there’s no overlay, it’s just my vision. I turn my head and I see what the flesh mech sees. You could stand in front of me right here in this cockpit, and I wouldn’t see you there unless I specifically drew my focus and attention back into this cockpit.”

Clay’s first instinct was to make a smart-ass remark, but he held back. He was a good enough pilot to see the advantage of not being distracted by the cockpit itself.

“I may have to talk to Gibbons about an interface upgrade,” Clay said. “Maybe rig a helmet that could give me the same advantage.”

Paige laughed. Hard.

“Or not,” Clay grumbled. “Tell me what you really think.”

“You and Gibbons are meant to be separate minds,” Paige said. “That’s the natural mech pilot to AI relationship. There’s a reason full integration with an artificial intelligence stopped being used a long, long time ago.”

“So, this thing doesn’t have a fleshy AI hanging out in its grey matter?” Clay asked. “What are you integrating with?”

“The flesh itself,” Paige said. “I am the mech, the mech is me. I thought I was making this clear.”

Clay laughed and swiped a hand across the jumpseat, cringing at the residue that came off the surface. “There is nothing clear about this mech,” he replied. “I’m in foreign territory here.”

“That you are, Clay,” Paige said. “That you are.”

They were quiet for rest of the journey. It took them longer to reach the Vernacht than Clay would have liked. The sun would be threatening to ruin the perfectly dreary night with a perfectly dreary day soon. But he knew that they couldn’t just run the flesh mech to the Vernacht without possibly drawing unwanted attention. The Perdition Plains folks were mech savvy enough to have seismic sensors in place. A running mech, flesh or metal, makes itself known for kilometers.

They reached the Vernacht and Paige stopped the flesh mech, the organic machine standing over the fallen metal machine that was submerged in the semi-dry muck of the muddy prairie.

Clay stood up and walked to the cockpit hatch. He looked down and frowned.

“I can’t see shit,” he said. “Integration or not, this thing needs a set of floodlights.”

“That is not a problem,” Paige said. A second later, the landscape below was bathed in a hearty red glow. “There. Better than floodlights. The red is on a spectrum that is hard to detect at night from the distance. If I’d had floodlights, then we might as well have lit up a sign saying to come and get us.”

With the added illumination, Clay quickly saw that they had their work cut out for them. The Vernacht was more than halfway submerged in drying mud and muck. Most of it completely lost from sight.

“You’re going to need to get into the cockpit and see if the machine has any power left,” Paige said. “If we can get it started up, then maybe it can wriggle its way out enough for me to move it.”

“What are you going to do?” Clay asked as the cockpit hatch opened and a fleshy palm was raised for him to step onto.

“I’m going to go ahead and start digging,” Paige said. “That’s about all I can do until we get the mud clear enough to get it free.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Clay said. He started to step out onto the flesh mech’s palm then stopped. “Wait, how will we communicate?”

“Right, sorry,” Paige said. She plucked a small bit of meat from her harness and held it out. Clay looked at it dubiously. “Take it. Put it in your ear. It’s this mech’s version of a com.”

“Sure. Why not,” Clay sighed.

He took the bit of meat and stuck it in his ear. Clay didn’t say another word as he stepped onto the waiting palm, his flesh crawling from the bit of meat that was busy settling itself into his ear canal.

Nineteen

The fleshy palm set Clay down on top of the exposed section of the Vernacht. Clay instantly saw that the mech was beyond any hope of repair. He had no idea if the damage was done during his battle with Mr. Bell or if the storm worked a little of Nature’s violence upon it, but it wasn’t going to be getting up and walking away anytime soon.

Careful not to slip and fall off the slick surface of the damp mech, Clay made his way into the cockpit. There was a smell, of course, that Clay had grown to know very well.

Rotted meat.

He slapped at his belt and realized he didn’t have a flashlight. Sighing, Clay moved about the cockpit cautiously with only the red glow from the flesh mech outside to illuminate his way. It didn’t take long to find the source of the smell. Bundled up in the corner was a pile of long, pinkish cable. It was thicker than any cable Clay was familiar with. At least any cable that would be needed inside a mech’s cockpit.

Not really wanting to, but feeling like he had to, Clay approached the pile of cable. He stood over it for a couple of seconds then turned and hurried to the cockpit door, making it in time before his salted meat came back up. He retched at the door for a minute or two, wiped his mouth with the back of his hands, glad he’d thought to bring his gloves, then took a couple deep breaths and went back in.

“You alright there, Clay?” Paige asked, her voice crystal clear in his head. Not his ear, but his head. It was as if she’d taken up residence in his skull. “Sounded like you might have had an argument with your dinner.”

“Paige? Why is there a pile of rotting intestines in the corner of this cockpit?” Clay asked. “They look, and smell, like they were fresh fairly recently.”

“Father likes to use fresh intestines when completing a consciousness transfer,” Paige replied as if it was the most normal thing ever. “He says it leads to zero data loss and makes for a smoother transition from vessel to vessel. I told you he was a genius.”

“I have a few other words for what he might be after seeing this,” Clay said.

“What? You’d rather Gibbons was still stuck in the Vernacht’s black box?” Paige asked. She didn’t sound offended, but Clay could tell she was just one wrong comment away from getting there. “You’re out of your depth here, Clay. Let the experts handle the science and tech when it comes to flesh and consciousness.”

“Gibbons is an AI,” Clay said. “He’s a program, not a consciousness.”

“You really believe that?” Paige asked.

Clay didn’t answer. No, he didn’t believe that. He never had. Gibbons was as conscious and self-aware as any sentient being. It’s what made Gibbons different than other mech AIs. It’s why after the Bloody Conflict, AIs like Gibbons were ordered to be destroyed. Wouldn’t do to have thinking machines wandering about the continent.

The destruction and dismantling of so many cavalry battle mechs was not only to scavenge for needed resources after generations of war, but to ensure that the AI co-pilots of those mechs didn’t decide they wanted the same freedoms that their other halves, their human pilot partners, were granted. Not that the mech pilots on both sides after the Bloody Conflict were granted much in the way of freedoms.

Clay shivered at the stories told. At the memories buried. At the reality that war heroes had found themselves the new targets of violence and persecution.

Clay shook the thoughts from his head. He had work to do.

“Clay? Are you alright?” Paige asked. There was genuine concern in her voice. “I lost you there for a bit. Literally. It was like your mind disconnected.”

“Bad thoughts,” Clay said. He cleared his throat. “Can I trust you?”

Paige hesitated.

“Never mind,” Clay said.

“No, no, you can trust me,” Paige said hurriedly. “Sorry, I didn’t answer right away because…”

“Because we all have secrets,” Clay said. “I get that. Never mind. My head isn’t on straight right now. I’ve been through a lot these past few days.” He barked a laugh. “Been through a lot most of my life, really. Just felt like confessing, but realized that would either put an unfair burden on you or you’d turn on me and all this fun would be over before I was ready to get the hell out of the Midlands.”

Paige hesitated again.

Clay waited as he busied himself with inspecting the Vernacht’s control consoles. He could feel Paige ready to say something, so he let her take her time as he tried to figure out if the Vernacht had any juice left in it or was nothing but a mud-covered lump of dead metal weight.

“We all have confessions to make,” Paige said finally.

The Vernacht shook, and Clay steadied himself as he looked out the grimy, mud-streaked windows as the flesh mech began to excavate the muck from around the construction mech. Clay laughed and thought that it sure would be handy to have a construction mech to free the construction mech.

“Fuck you,” Paige snapped.

“What?” Clay asked. “No, wait, I wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing at the irony of a construction mech being dug out when it’s usually a construction mech doing the digging.”

“Sorry,” Paige replied. “This conversation about confessions has me…on edge.”

“You and me both,” Clay said. “How about if we drop any thought of confessions and stick to getting the job done we’re here to do?”

“Deal,” Paige said, her voice sounding like a weight had been lifted. “Maybe some other time.”

“Or not at all,” Clay said. “We barely know each other. I’ll be on my way as soon as we get my mech working again, so no need to bare our souls. Sometimes secrets are best left buried and covered over with guilt and pain.”

Paige laughed. It was her hard laugh, from the belly, from the soul. Clay felt all of its energy in his head and smiled.

“Another deal?” he asked, a warm feeling spreading through him.

“Another deal,” Paige replied. “Any luck with the Vernacht’s systems?”

“I’m working on it,” Clay said. “I think there’s some juice left in this puppy. I’m getting flickers on the console. But that could just be residual electricity working through the circuits. Give me a couple more minutes.”

“Don’t take too long,” Paige said. “We’ll have dawn in about an hour. The Perditions will have their people here not much longer after that. Holcomb is going to want his Vernacht back.”

“Holcomb,” Clay said thoughtfully. “He didn’t strike me as such a bad fella. How’d he get wrapped up with the Perditions?”

“Everyone has their story,” Paige said. “I don’t know Holcomb’s too well. Father does. He remembers when Holcomb first came to Perdition Plains. He’s spoken about it vaguely. Something about a cursed man looking for salvation and sanctuary.”

“Sounds like Holcomb has his own secrets he’d like to keep buried,” Clay said. “We should start a club.”

“We already have,” Paige said. “It’s called humanity.”

Clay chuckled then grabbed the control console with both hands as the Vernacht shifted violently to the right. “Careful! Don’t kill me to get this thing free! I’d rather be alive without a working mech than dead with plenty of spare parts just lying about.”

“No such thing as spare parts,” Paige said. “Only parts that are waiting to be used. Everything gets used at some point.”

Clay detected a strange tone in that comment, but let it drop as he found a bit of hope in front of him.

“Think I may have something here,” Clay said. “Auxiliary systems don’t look too fried. I’m disconnecting all main systems so they aren’t a drain on the controls. I’ll go full auxiliary and see if I can make progress that way.”

“I expected you’d do that first thing,” Paige said. “What have you been doing all this time?”

“Talking to you,” Clay replied. “And making sure the main systems and controls couldn’t be salvaged. Auxiliary is just that, auxiliary. Main is better, any day of the damned week.”

“You’re more thorough than I gave you credit for,” Paige said. “Maybe you aren’t the cocky maverick with the swagger I thought before.”

“I’m plenty maverick,” Clay said. “When I’ve had some sleep, a few decent meals, and haven’t had my ass handed to me for days on end.”

“So never then?” Paige laughed.

“Exactly,” Clay laughed back.

Clay worked at the auxiliary controls. He managed to find enough power to get some basic readings. A quick check told him that the Vernacht’s power cells weren’t going to do much. Not for long, at least. Clay found himself with two races on his hands. The race against the approaching dawn and the race against failing power cells. They were leaking energy like the intestines in the corner were leaking stink.

“How are you doing?” Clay asked as the Vernacht shuddered and shifted again. “Making any headway?”

“Slowly,” Paige said. “You ever tried to dig a hole with your bare hands?”

“Too many times,” Clay said.

“That’s how it’s going for me,” Paige said. “Except on a larger scale.”

Clay watched as hydraulics systems came on line, and he felt the Vernacht hum with life for the first time since stepping into the intestine stench of the cockpit.

“Hot damn!” he cried and punched a fist in the air.

“Good for you, Clay,” Paige said. “See if you can get those legs to work and help lift this machine out of the mud.”

“That’s the first order of business,” Clay said as he grabbed the motor controls and checked to see what was working and what was dead. The Vernacht didn’t have all of its legs, so Clay had to find what ones were still intact by trial and error. “Got ‘em. Step back as I try to stand up. I don’t want this thing lurching and smacking into you.”

Paige moved the flesh mech back several meters as Clay slowly worked the controls back and forth, moving the Vernacht from side to side as he carefully applied power to the legs. He couldn’t stand too fast, or he’d risk any damaged struts snapping in half or the legs just falling right off.

The cockpit’s view shifted and raised about three meters and Clay smiled.

Until a barely audible beeping got his attention.

“What is that?” Paige asked.

“You can hear that? I can barely hear that,” Clay said.

“I hear what you hear,” Paige said.

“I don’t hear what you hear,” Clay replied.

“I know,” Paige said and laughed.

“Ha ha, funny,” Clay said then any feeling of laughter instantly drained away. “Oh, shit.”

“What is it?” Paige asked again.

“Scanners came online,” Clay said. “I didn’t bring them up. I must have triggered something while fiddling with power levels.”

“Scanners? Hold on,” Paige responded. Silence for a minute as Clay studied the scanner readings. “I’ve got nothing. What are you seeing?”

“Not sure,” Clay said. “Just blips. Not sure why you can’t pick it up.” He paused and studied the readings carefully. “This is radar. Old school doppler. What the hell?”

“It’s a construction mech, Clay,” Paige said. “It has to do deep scans through kilometers of earth sometimes. The scanners must have gotten their configuration messed up. Instead of seeing into the ground, you’re seeing across the landscape.”

“But what am I seeing?” Clay asked.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Paige said. “Describe the readings.”

Clay did and Paige gasped.

“Shit,” she muttered. “Shit, shit, shit. We’re out of time.”

The flesh mech backed away from the Vernacht, its massive fists coated in mud, and turned around to face the opposite direction.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Clay asked.

“I’m getting ready for the fight,” Paige said. “Listen. Can you set that thing to autopilot so it wriggles free on its own? You should be able to program in a motion protocol.”

“Maybe, but then what?” Clay asked.

“Then you get your ass out of that cockpit and start hooking up chains to the tow points,” Paige said. “I can’t lift the Vernacht. Even if we get it free of the mud, we’ll still have to drag it back home. I’ll only have enough leverage if you get the chains hooked to the correct tow points.”

“Okay, I can do that, but what are you going to do?” Clay asked. “What do the scanner readings mean?”

“Hounds,” Paige said. “The Perditions have released the tweener hounds. All of them.”

“Hounds? Shit, that’s never a good thing to hear,” Clay said. “Are all of these blips hounds?”

“Yes,” Paige replied.

“That’s close to a hundred!” Clay shouted.

“I know!” Paige said. “Get that mech programmed then get those chains hooked up! I’ve got a fight to get to!”

“You sure you don’t want me to do the fighting?” Clay asked. “I know fighting better—”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Paige said as the flesh mech took off running, headed in the direction of the oncoming swarm of tweener hounds. “I don’t doubt you’re good, but not that good. I know this mech. I got this fight. Just get the Vernacht ready for a fast getaway.”

Clay thought about responding, but didn’t. He had a couple jobs to do.

Twenty

His fingers flew across the console in a rush to get the motion protocol locked in before anything shorted out and he was cut off from the controls. The smell of ozone was beginning to overpower the smell of intestines, so Clay was fairly certain circuits were frying left and right. His race had grown considerably shorter.

“Son of a bitch,” he snapped as he kept screwing up a line of code and had to backtrack three times to get it right. “Come on, come on.”

The Vernacht rocked violently, then the ear-splitting sound of metal grinding on metal made Clay cringe. But it was a good cringe because it meant the Vernacht was moving on its own and Clay didn’t need to be at the controls anymore.

The console burst into flame, and he had to jump back to keep from getting singed. Clay held his breath, not because of the fumes billowing up out of the console, although that was part of it, but because he was waiting for his hard work to come crashing down. Literally.

Yet the Vernacht kept moving despite the control console giving up the ghost. He sighed with relief, but it was short lived as he looked out into the darkness and realized he’d have to not only find the chains needed, but have to hook them up in the dark. His illumination was busy rushing towards a dog fight.

“Dammit,” he grumbled as he began to search the cockpit for a flashlight, a halogen torch, anything he could use to see by once he stepped from of the relative safety of the cockpit and out onto the swaying Vernacht. “Come on!”

Clay kicked open a locker and found three headlamps inside. Two were cracked, but the third had a working halogen and he flicked it on, momentarily blinding himself as he stared directly into the bulb. He closed his eyes, counted to five, then opened them again. His sight was better, but the halogen had already dimmed. Power was going to be an issue. Power was always an issue.

Clay affixed the headlamp’s strap around his head and adjusted it so it wouldn’t slip off. It wasn’t easy; he was coated in a sheen of sweat. He wished he had his hat and that trusty headband that had kept the perspiration from his eyes for so many years.

The Vernacht shook violently, and Clay braced himself in the cockpit’s doorway before he rushed out onto the narrow walkway that led to the main deck one level below. As Clay found the metal steps that took him to where he hoped he’d find storage lockers with ancillary equipment, such as heavy chains, Clay realized that the Vernacht was almost as much a ship as it was a mech. A land ship, sure, but it was more of a horizontal vehicle than a vertical one like his battle mech, there was no arguing that.

He had heard the prairies of the Midlands sometimes being called the Oceans of Death, so he wasn’t surprised a Vernacht had found its way to the plains.

Clay let the train of thought go as he reached the first storage locker. He grabbed the handle and pulled, but the door was warped and wouldn’t open. He had to brace a foot against the side of it and yank with all of his strength, which was waning as the night wore on, and keep pulling until it finally opened with a protesting squeal of wrenching metal.

Tarps. Heavy, oiled tarps. No chains.

Clay moved on to the next one. And the next one. And the next one.

Tarps, cables, cans of lubricant that smelled as bad as the cockpit had, even some very large, thick hooks, which Clay took note of since he figured he’d need those once he found the chains. But he didn’t find any chains.

The Vernacht made a grinding noise that sent Clay into a panic. He knew a dying servo when he heard one. He managed to grab onto a large handle welded next to a storage locker just as the servo died and one of the mech’s legs went with it. The Vernacht tilted at a dangerous angle, more dangerous than the angle it already had been at, and Clay gripped the handle with everything he had until the Vernacht’s gyros told the remaining legs to compensate for the loss of stability.

“Chains. Chains, chains, chains,” Clay muttered once he could regain a stable footing.

He left the storage lockers and worked his way across the main deck towards a few shadowed squares that he thought might be hatches to larger storage sections, possibly recessed holds.

The first one was locked down tight. There was no budging it, and Clay figured there weren’t chains in there anyway since no one would care enough to lock up chains with that kind of security. He did wonder what was in there, but only briefly as he moved to the next hold. He grabbed the second hatch and fell right on his ass as he flung it open with ease, not expecting it to be so willing to give up its contents.

Clay picked himself up, steadied his stance as the Vernacht lurched to the left then bounced slightly, then peered into the open hold. Chains. Lots of chains. Very large, heavy chains.

Heavy chains…

The individual links were almost as long as his forearms. Clay’s back hurt just looking at the coiled metal that sat waiting in the shadows. Getting them up out of the hold was not going to be easy. Their weight aside, the first coil of chain was a good two meters below the hatch’s edge. The hold itself was about four meters by four meters, which would have allowed enough space for the Vernacht’s no longer existent claw to pluck a coil right out of there with ease. For Clay? Not so easy.

“How’s it going?” Paige asked, her voice clear as if she was standing right next to Clay. It made him jump, and he almost fell into the open hold. “Clay?”

“Just working out some logistics,” Clay said. “I found the chains.”

“So what’s the problem?” Paige asked.

“You have any idea how big these things are?” Clay replied. “I can’t lift these!”

“There should be hoists somewhere on that deck,” Paige said. “Start looking for—Hold on.”

The communications went silent for a long while until Paige came back on, puffing and panting. “Damn, these hounds are brutal. I need to ask Father to develop some type of repellant. Like a nasty whistle or scent bomb that will send them fleeing with their metal tails between their legs.”

“They have metal tails?” Clay asked.

“Nasty ones,” Paige replied. “Sharp with barbed tips. They hook them in the flesh so I can’t shake them off then start biting and clawing. I have to literally tear them free. It’s taking chunks out of the mech. Much more, and I won’t be able to drag the Vernacht back home.”

“Great,” Clay said as he began to search the deck for the hoists Paige mentioned.

He found one, just one, and it didn’t look like it was in the best of condition. But he was able to get it free of the straps holding it in place and wheel it over to the edge of the hold. Paige was busy cursing in his ear, but Clay didn’t bother to respond. He knew fight language when he heard it. She was busy. So was he.

There were several series of clamp locks set around the hold edge, and Clay set the feet of the hoist into them then locked it down tight. He shoved on the hoist and smiled when he saw it wasn’t going to move even a centimeter. Then he set about trying to figure out how to get the hoist to work.

“Lever, four cables, one long arm,” he muttered as he talked himself through the mechanics of the hoist. “I lower it this way.”

He hand-cranked the hoist arm out over the hold then released a couple of gears and the three cables descended quickly. Clay scrambled over the edge of the hold, dropped on top of the chains, grabbed the cables, then threaded them through the first coil. They had heavy duty clasps on each end, so he was able to loop the cables and secure them in place. He yanked hard on each one to make sure they were snug then found the recessed hand and foot holds in the wall and climbed back up to the hoist.

Cranking the arm out over the hold had been easy, but having to manually crank the cables up, with the incredibly heavy chain attached, was close to impossible. Clay put his full weight into each revolution of the crank. He was sweating and heaving by the time the chain showed itself above the hold’s edge.

He turned the hoist arm and let the chain fall to the deck, then stood there, bent over and panting, as he tried to catch his breath. His arms ached, and he groaned at the thought of having to repeat the process.

There was a shout so loud that Clay thought his head would explode. He clamped his hands over his ears, but that did nothing to dampen the effect. He almost buckled under the pain, his knees shaking.

“Hey,” he cried out. “Hey!”

“Sorry,” Paige said. “It got close there for a second.”

‘“You good?” Clay asked, his breathing finally under control from the exertion of lifting the chain and the pain of Paige’s shout.

“I am now,” Paige said. “Still touch and go, though. How are you doing? Find a hoist?”

“Yeah,” Clay replied. “I’ve got one chain up.”

“One?” Paige exclaimed. “We’ll need at least four!”

“I’m working on it!” Clay snapped. “This isn’t easy!”

Four… Clay was nearly sick at the thought.

Paige said a few more choice words, but Clay tuned her out. He dropped back into the hold, the cables in hand, and secured another chain. He repeated the process from before, albeit a little slower, and wrangled a second chain. Then a third. Then a fourth.

Clay had no problem collapsing onto the deck, his body drenched in sweat. He laughed as he took the lamp off his head and the light faded to a dull yellow then flickered out. He smacked it a couple times, just because, but it wasn’t going to illuminate anything anymore. Didn’t matter, the sun had begun to make its presence known on the horizon.

“Paige?” Clay whispered, realizing he hadn’t heard her voice in a while. “Paige?”

“Here,” Paige whispered back. She sounded as exhausted as he felt. “Almost got them done in. Taking care of a couple more then heading your way.”

“Good,” Clay said. “We’ll need the mech to lift the chains into place. I can secure them, but no way I can drag them to the where they need to be.”

“Understood,” Paige said. “I’ll be there shortly.”

Clay nodded in response, realized she couldn’t see him, then didn’t bother responding at all. She was busy. He’d started to doze off when another painful shout made him sit bolt upright.

“What the hell?” Clay snarled.

“Five!” Paige was yelling. “I had counted five! Clay! There are only four! Clay!”

Clay knew what that meant. One of the tweener hounds had slipped by Paige, had slipped by the flesh mech and was on its way to the Vernacht. On its way to Clay.

“I’m up on the deck,” Clay said.

He dragged himself to his feet and looked out across the landscape. The Vernacht had righted itself, as much as it could, and stood on shaky legs above the muck and mud. There was a slit of dawn spreading across the horizon, but not enough for Clay to make out details in the almost featureless land. Let alone see an approaching shape that was only the size of a dog.

Except that he did see an approaching shape. It was not the size of a dog. It was the size of one of the bison he and Gibbons had fled from only a few days earlier.

As it got closer, Clay could see the barbed tail whipping back and forth behind it. He swallowed hard, wondering if the creature did that with its tail to maintain balance, or if it was a truly canine affectation and it was happy as hell to be running towards its prey.

“Son of a bitch,” Clay muttered and immediately began to search around for a weapon, any weapon, to defend himself against something he doubted would have any problem climbing the Vernacht to get to his ass.

Twenty-One

Fire axe. There had to be a fire axe. There was always a fire axe. On a mech the size of the Vernacht, how could there not be a fire axe?

There was no fire axe.

Clay searched every storage locker, opened every hold hatch that would open. He worked his way back up to the cockpit, but only found a room filled with smoke and stink. He searched every square centimeter of the Vernacht’s decks, but there was nothing he could use to defend himself with. There were no weapons.

Clay considered locking himself in one of the holds, but he didn’t think he could manage to get the hatch closed and still keep all of his fingers. He was exhausted and the hatches were heavy. Not as heavy as the chains, but heavy.

The chains.

He couldn’t use the chains as weapons, but the hoist was a different matter.

Clay booked his ass over to the hoist as he heard a long, keening howl from just a few meters off to the side of the Vernacht. If what Paige had said was true, the tweener hound would be able to scale the mech and get to him without any problem.

“Clay,” Paige said. “I’m coming. The mech is damaged. A lot. I’m barely limping it along, but I’m coming. Hide if you can.”

“I have a better idea,” Clay said. “But, yeah, hurry if possible.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Paige said. “Do not underestimate one of these hounds. They have more brains than the automatons do.”

“That’s not saying much,” Clay replied as he reached the hoist and began to crank the cables loose.

Once the cables were stretched out, he went to work. It didn’t take much work, actually. It was only a matter of unhooking two of the cables from the hoist and hooking them together. He fed one end through the hoist’s pulley system and attached another end to one of the heavy chains. That was the hard part, scooting the heavy chain close enough to the edge of the empty hold. Clay managed to get it where he wanted it then sat down hard.

He was almost done for. Every muscle in his body screamed with fatigue and a soreness that bordered on pain, but was too tired to fully commit.

The howl came again, but no longer a few meters off. It came from up around the cockpit. The hound had climbed the Vernacht straight up one of the legs and went for where it thought Clay would be. The thing’s howl was filled with disappointment and betrayal. How dare Clay not be where a pilot should be.

Clay waited. He sat stock still, barely breathing. He held out hope that Paige would reach him in time and pluck the thing right off the Vernacht like a flea, crushing it then tossing its broken body out into the plains. The lack of Paige’s voice in his head told Clay that was a pipe dream. She wasn’t going to make it.

“Okay, asshole,” Clay whispered. “Come and fetch some death.”

He chuckled at the absurdity of his words. Oh, well, if those were the last he spoke then so be it.

There was the sound of clacking on the steps to the cockpit. Clay waited, his eyes locked on the spot where they met the main deck. After a few seconds, the metal and flesh snout of the great beast appeared. Clay shuddered and wondered how the hell Paige had beaten a hundred of the things. Just seeing one made him want to crap himself.

“There you are,” Clay said, his voice surprisingly calm.

The hound had reached the bottom of the steps, and Clay truly saw just how big it was. Easily the size of a full grown male bison, it stood with bunched muscles that were threaded with reinforcing metal and wire. Its teeth gleamed in the dawn light, razor sharp. More akin to blades than canines. They wouldn’t shred and tear so much as slice and dice whatever they sunk into.

Snout raised, fleshy nostrils open wide, the hound swung its head towards Clay. As tired as he was, his body was still able to give a jolt at the sight of the eyes. They weren’t bison. They weren’t dog. They were very much human eyes, only grown large enough to fit into the hound’s massive head. Clay wanted to vomit as those eyes locked onto him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said as the tweener hound smiled. It actually smiled. “God, I hate the Midlands.”

The hound took its time. It was in no hurry. It saw no threat. Clay was obviously not going anywhere. Even if he had his full energy and strength, there was nowhere to go. Try to run? It would be on him before he got more than a few steps. The Vernacht’s main deck was wide open and the intelligence in the hound’s eyes said quite clearly that it knew Clay was screwed.

“Saying these things have more brains than automatons was an understatement,” Clay said. He waited for a response. None came. “Paige? Hello?”

Nothing.

That had Clay’s blood running colder than the sight of the hound. How much damage had the flesh mech taken? Was it enough that she was hurt as well? Or was it only enough that the flesh com was out?

Clay had no way of knowing, so he focused on what he did know. There was a razor-toothed monster padding its way across the main deck right towards him.

Right towards where Clay wanted it to go.

“Nice doggy,” Clay said. “Who’s a good boy? Are you a good boy?”

The human eyes narrowed, and Clay really didn’t like the look the hound gave him. There was a soul deep hate in those eyes. He’d seen killers, human killers, with the same look just before butchering entire families, including the children. No mercy, no quarter given.

“Doggy want a treat?” Clay cooed. The hound snarled. “Oh, be nice. Doggy doesn’t get a treat if doggy is a bad, bad boy.”

His words were pissing it off, distracting it from what it was about to step in. Clay shifted his weight and the hound paused. It paused just half a meter from the loop of cable Clay had set on the deck. Clay stopped moving and waited. After a moment, the hound placed its foot down inside the loop.

Before it could take another step, Clay stood and shoved with all of his strength, putting his legs and back into the effort. The heavy chain he’d been sitting on went over the edge of the hold and fell fast. The cable loop tightened just as fast around the hound’s leg, snapping taught and yanking the monster onto its side.

It struggled to right itself, but Clay was having none of that. He got up and grabbed onto the hoist, cranking as hard and fast as he could until the cable pulled the hound closer to the edge of the hold.

Then Clay shoved the entire hoist into the hold and the hound followed after it.

The howling the thing made as it fell into the hold was almost as painful as Paige’s shouts directly into Clay’s head. The hound roared with pure fury.

Clay ignored the fury. He had one job to do, and if he didn’t do it, then he was a dead man. He squatted and lifted the hold hatch then shoved just as hard as he had against the chain, sending the hatch back into place. Clay flung himself across the hatch and scrambled to get the locks secured. The hatch shuddered under him as the hound threw itself against it. Even with a cable tied to a massive chain around its leg, it could still get free and rip Clay apart. That thought was what he hung onto as he got one, two, three, and four locks slammed home.

The hound raged against the hatch again, making a small dent in the metal. Clay rolled off the hatch and scrambled backwards on his ass across the Vernacht’s main deck. He stared at the hatch for a long while as the enraged hound fought to get free. Dent after dent appeared, but the hatch itself didn’t budge. It stayed right where it was supposed to, and Clay let out a long breath he had been holding.

“Paige?” Clay called. “I got it. I snared the damn thing.”

Still nothing.

“Dammit, Paige, answer me!” Clay yelled.

“Good,” Paige whispered. “Hey…Clay?”

“Yeah?” Clay replied, already getting to his feet and looking out across the landscape in hopes of seeing any sign of the flesh mech. He thought he saw a pink mound way off in the distance, but the sun hadn’t risen high enough for him to be sure. “Yeah, Paige? What?”

“I need help,” Paige whispered. “I can’t…get out…of the harness.”

“I think I see you,” Clay said. “I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

“Hurry,” Paige said. “The mech…is dying.”

“Mechs do that,” Clay chuckled. “Nothing to worry about. We’ll get it powered up again and then make our way home.” He smiled to himself at that last word. Home.

“No, you…don’t understand,” Paige said. “I’m strapped…in. Full…integration…”

“Yeah, I know how it works,” Clay replied. “Full integration. You and the mech are one.”

He did not smile at those last words. The realization slammed into him as hard as the hound was still slamming into the hold hatch.

Full integration. The mech was made of flesh. The mech was dying. Full integration.

Paige was dying.

“Son of a bitch,” Clay said and dug deep.

He scrambled about pitifully for a way off the Vernacht. The climb may kill him since his muscles were basically the consistency of the muck surrounding the mech, but he wasn’t going to give up. If he gave up, then Paige would be dead. That was not going to happen.

Twenty-Two

The ground was damp with morning dew and the remnants of the storm that had passed more than a day before. It wasn’t the mucky mire that the Vernacht had stood up out of, but it wasn’t an easy landscape to traverse, either. Not when Clay’s legs barely obeyed and he felt like stopping every few steps, curling up into a ball, and giving up.

But he couldn’t give up. Paige was dying.

That was his mantra. The words that flitted through his head when he was coherent enough to comprehend them.

He couldn’t give up. Paige was dying.

“You there?” Clay asked. “Come on, Paige, answer me.”

There was a quiet moan, and Clay forced a smile. Not because he didn’t want to smile, but because he was so tired his lips barely had the energy to form words, let alone partake in any mirthful exercise.

“Hold on, ya hear?” Clay said. “Keep breathing. Try to stay awake. Don’t let the mech take you down. You’re the pilot, dammit. You are in control. The mech is an extension of you, not you of it.”

No moan. No response at all.

“PAIGE!” he shouted so loud that he strained his vocal cords.

“Here,” Paige whispered. “I’m the pilot.”

“Damn right you are,” Clay responded with relief. “You are the pilot. I’m on my way to get you out of there. All you have to do is stay alive. That’s your job. Stay alive.”

“My job,” Paige replied. “Stay…”

“ALIVE!” Clay yelled.

“Alive,” Paige gasped then began to weep. “Clay… I can’t…go like…this. Not after…everything.”

Clay had no idea what she meant. Was she talking about being lazaroti? Was she talking about having to eat dead, rotten meat? Was she talking about dealing with the folks in charge of Perdition Plains? He didn’t know. He honestly didn’t care. Paige had one job, and that was to stay alive. Clay had one job and that was to make sure she accomplished her one job.

The lump of mech was getting closer and Clay was beyond grateful. He honestly wasn’t sure if he was actually making his feet move one in front of the other. He only had the growing mound of flesh mech to gauge his progress by.

“Sweet hell,” Clay said as he got closer. “Now that’s a smell.”

The entire area reeked of rot. Clay didn’t know if it was from the dying flesh mech or if it was from the myriad of tweener hound corpses that lay broken and shattered everywhere. His guess was it was the hound corpses since they seemed to be leaking every fluid imaginable into the ground that had become nothing but trampled prairie grasses and massive ruts.

Paige had done one hell of a job fighting off the hounds. As Clay surveyed the area, he marveled that she only let one hound slip by her. Dozens upon dozens upon dozens of bodies littered the earth. They lay as far as Clay’s eyes could see, which was pretty far now that the sun had come fully up.

“Talk to me,” Clay gasped as a cramp built to a crescendo of discomfort in his side. “Paige! Talk. To. Me.”

“Still…here,” Paige replied. She sounded lost, so little and far away even though Clay could see where she was. “Hurry…”

“Yeah, working on that,” Clay said.

He was just about there. Only a few more meters to go, and he could climb right up the flesh mech’s side and get to Paige in the cockpit. He just had to navigate the never-ending sea of dead hounds first.

As he passed one, its remaining eye popped open and its jaws began to snap at him. Clay jumped, fell over, landed hard on his ass, scrambled back to his feet, then laughed as he saw that the hound’s head was only connected to a spine. Nothing else, just a spine. Its limbs and the rest of its torso were scattered here and there. Or Clay assumed they were. There were so many hound parts he couldn’t say for certain that the ones he was looking at belonged to the snapping hound head.

He longed for his revolver. All he wanted to do was put a round in the hound’s temple and be done with it. Instead, he kept moving until he was resting his forehead against the collapsed flesh mech. The surface was clammy and not the most pleasant, but Clay had to take a quick breather before the hard part began.

“Shit,” he muttered as he stood straight again and looked up at the three-meter climb he had to accomplish to get to the cockpit hatch. “Okay. One hand at a time, just like one foot at a time.”

He reached up, gripped a handful of flesh, and pulled. Then he reached up with his other hand and did the same thing. Once high enough, he dug the toe of his boot into the mech and pushed. Hand over hand, foot over foot, Clay struggled with his last remaining strength to get up to the cockpit.

Inside was a pool of blood. Or some sort of blood-like fluid. There were too many floaters for it to be straight up blood.

“Shit,” Clay said yet again as he saw Paige still strapped into the harness, only her shoulders, neck and head above the fluid. “Paige? I’m here.”

The woman’s lips twitched into what he hoped was a smile and not a death grimace.

Clay slid down over the edge of the cockpit hatch and landed waist deep in the fluid. He was positive that if he took a step to the left, he’d end up chest deep, if his memory of the cockpit was correct. He stepped to the right and stayed at the same level. He kept moving until he was at a point where he could fall forward and grab onto the top straps of the harness.

Paige cried out as if she’d been struck.

“It hurts,” she gasped.

“Sorry,” Clay said.

His hands worked at the straps, tugging at them, pulling at them, trying to rip them free. They refused to budge.

“What am I doing wrong?” Clay asked. “Paige? What am I doing wrong?”

“Tell it…to let…go,” Paige said.

“Let go, dammit!’ Clay barked.

The hint of a smile returned to Paige’s ashen face. “No… With your…mind.”

“Oh,” Clay said.

He put his hands on the harness again and thought about the straps freeing themselves. They did instantly. Clay was so happy at the result that he missed the danger. Paige slid into the fluid, swallowed up by the liquid.

“Dammit!” he swore as he took a deep breath and dove under.

She was slipping to the “bottom” of the cockpit. Clay hooked an arm around her chest and gripped tight as he kicked his legs against where the harness was moored to the floor. It was his last bit of strength and he managed to get them both back up to breathable air.

He spat and sputtered then slapped Paige’s back until she retched up the horrid fluid, gagging and puking for a full minute before resting her head against his shoulder. Clay swam them over to the edge of the cockpit hatch and found the ledge he’d first stepped on. He wanted to lift her up onto it, but he was done. He wasn’t sure he had enough energy to even sneeze.

They rested that way for Clay didn’t know how long. Paige’s breathing evened out and when he checked, her pulse was steady, if not a little weak. Around them, the flesh mech slowly deflated as the energy left it.

Paige had said it was dying; Clay wondered if that was more literal than he’d realized before. The organic machine seemed to do exactly what he’d seen hundreds of corpses do. He could tell the exact moment the flesh mech was out of energy. There was a stillness that hadn’t been there before. There was a lack of presence. It could have been a hunk of concrete or an old log. It could have been a huge rock or an abandoned roller. It didn’t matter, it was no longer a mech, just more rotting flesh in a landscape that seemed to specialize in the substance.

“Okay,” Clay whispered. “Gonna have to figure out how the hell to get out of—”

He didn’t have a chance to finish. He and Paige were sucked away from the ledge, pulled down into the suddenly swirling liquid. He wanted to scream, but instinct told him to take a deep breath and hold it instead. It was the right thing to do.

The experience wasn’t entirely new. It was a simple reverse of how he’d entered the flesh mech the very first time. They were sucked down and out of the cockpit, pulled by the whirlpool of nasty liquid. In seconds, they had been swept through half the mech and were expelled out of the back of one of the legs. Luck was on their side since the leg was bent at a very unnatural angle, otherwise they would have been ejected directly into the ground.

Clay held Paige to him as they rolled a couple of meters until coming to a painful stop against a dead hound. He gripped her tight to his chest, catching his breath, spitting gunk from his mouth, and stared up into the grey clouds above.

“Paige?” he asked. “You in there?”

“Mmm hmmm,” she replied.

“Phew,” he sighed.

He’d gotten to her. He gotten into the mech. He’d gotten out of the mech, although not necessarily by choice. He’d done his job.

There was a far-off rumble and Clay swore.

“Great,” he said. “Another storm. Just what we need.”

He heard the rumble again and realized it wasn’t the clouds above. It wasn’t a rumble from the sky, but a rumble from the ground. Despite his entire body protesting, Clay managed to get Paige off of him enough that he could push up on one elbow and see past the dead hound next to them.

Roller wagons. A whole hell of a lot of them.

The rumbling he heard and felt was from the hooves of the tweeners pulling the roller wagons across the plains. They were headed straight for them.

“I hate the Midlands,” Clay said and collapsed back to the ground.

He lay flat and his mind whirled with possible plans. They all involved shooting a bunch of Perdition Plains’ townsfolk, so the plans were useless since he had no revolver. Clay briefly wondered if he hadn’t become a little dependent on that pistol of his. A little voice inside him said that he needed to expand his thinking.

Another voice said to stay right where he was and not to move a damn muscle.

That was a strange voice. When it spoke again, Clay realized it wasn’t so strange after all. Well, it was since it was completely flat, a monotone utterance without any rhythm or cadence.

“Gibbons?” Clay whispered.

“See,” Morley’s voice cut in. “I told you I could outfit this mech with organic coms.”

“Stay where you are, pal,” Gibbons said. “I have you on the scanners. Don’t move and we’ll get you out of your little pickle of a problem.”

“Little pickle of a problem?” Clay laughed. “You have no idea how funny that sounds with that freaky voice of yours.”

“Don’t care,” Gibbons said. “Just stay put. Things are going to get hot real fast.”

Clay didn’t have time to even think of responding. The sky above him turned into fire and flame as a battery of rockets streaked by only meters over where he lay. As much as Clay wanted to do what Gibbons had said, he couldn’t help himself. He sat up just enough to see over the dead hound.

Roller wagon after roller wagon went up in flames. Some of the drivers managed to jump clear, but most didn’t. Their screams echoed across the plains as they burnt to death, the noise joined by the wails of the tweeners as their harnesses kept them strapped to the burning vehicles.

The few roller wagons that hadn’t taken rocket hits immediately ordered their tweener teams to turn around and flee. They swerved around and dodged the bloody pyres that littered the prairie. Some of the tweener teams pulled up short, refusing to pass the burning bodies of their still alive brethren. The drivers of the roller wagons got them moving again with shock poles and static-charged whips.

Clay watched the chaos with pure delight. He thought he was done for; he thought Paige was done for. He had been half ready to make peace with his demons and step into the hereafter. But Gibbons had come through once again.

The battle mech slowly approached where Clay lay with Paige. Its massive feet shook the ground, but Clay knew Gibbons was being as cautious and careful as he could with the giant machine.

“Sweet hell, Clay,” Gibbons said. “You look like squirrel crap wrung through cheesecloth.”

“Nice image, buddy,” Clay said as he took a couple deep breaths. The smell of death filled his nostrils, but he didn’t care. He was alive and had a battle mech standing watch over him. He raised a weary arm. “Gonna need some help here.”

“I figured as much,” Gibbons said and lowered a huge hand to the ground.

Morley stepped off the hand and rushed to his daughter, nearly shoving Clay out of the way.

“Don’t mind me,” Clay said.

“She is unconscious,” Morley said as he checked his daughter over. “We received the flesh mech’s distress call and hurried here as fast as we could.”

“How’d you get my mech working?” Clay asked. He turned his head and studied the machine. “You got the flesh patches to work when Paige couldn’t.”

“Yes, well, Gibbons was kind enough to let me in on a secret of some of the make-up of your mech,” Morley said. “Once I knew that, it was a simple matter of applying the proper electrical charges to the flesh patches. The repairs are hardly permanent, and you will need to use metal parts if you want your machine to be battle ready or able to handle long-distance travel.”

“But the fixes worked well enough to get the Perdition folks off our asses,” Clay said. “I appreciate it.”

Morley lifted Paige up into his arms and carried her back to the waiting mech hand.

“You got a little more strength to you than one would think, Barnes,” Clay said as he watched the old man set his daughter down in the open hand.

“Nothing is ever as it seems, Mr. MacAulay,” Morley replied. “Stay where you are, I’ll be back to assist you as soon as I get my daughter secured in the cockpit.”

“I’ll be right here waiting,” Clay said.

He went back to staring up at the grey clouds. He could see them moving as the breeze turned into a decent wind. He hated those clouds. He hated the plains. He hated the smell of rot and death.

Once his mech was serviceable, it was time to pack up and get the hell gone from the Midlands.

Twenty-Three

Clay managed as much of a shower as he could with the less than stellar facilities the caverns had. Mostly it was him standing naked in an alcove, tallow candles lit around him, while he dumped bucket after bucket of cold water over his head. At least there was plenty of soap, although Clay preferred not to think about where some of the ingredients came from.

Once he was refreshed and dressed again in clean clothes, Clay joined Gibbons in the main cavern. A plate of salted meat was waiting for him along with a glass of something frothy and a tall pitcher of the same beverage next to it.

“Morley says it’s a cross between an ale and mead,” Gibbons said. “It’s his opinion you could use some to help you unwind.”

“He’s damn right in that opinion,” Clay replied as he took his seat at the table and sniffed the glass. It had a sweet smell with a bitter floral scent underneath. He took a cautious sip, smiled, downed the rest, and smacked his lips approvingly once the glass was drained. “Oh, he is certainly right.”

Clay refilled the glass and plucked a hunk of salted meat from his plate. He sniffed that too then took a bite, proceeding to shove the rest in his mouth as soon as he was certain it hadn’t gone off. He finished his plate, downed another glass of the beverage, then turned sideways and stretched his legs out on the bench he sat upon.

“Talk,” he said to Gibbons.

Gibbons had an empty plate in front of him, which held the remnants of something congealed, and Clay quickly averted his eyes. He tried to focus his gaze on Gibbons’ eyes, but those were just dead orbs in a blank face.

“Talk? About?” Gibbons replied.

“How Morley was able to repair the mech when Paige couldn’t,” Clay said. “She’s the mechanic around here.”

“But, Morley is the genius,” Gibbons responded. “He’ll be the first to tell you that.”

“Paige would be the second,” Clay admitted. “Still doesn’t explain—”

“I told him about the biochrome,” Gibbons interrupted. “But I suppose you already knew that. I don’t appreciate the games, Clay.” He patted himself on the chest. “I know it hasn’t been easy on you these past few days, but look at me. I can feel this body degrading. I feel the cells breaking down. I feel, Clay. Too much. It’s taking all my willpower not to go insane.”

Clay wanted to respond with some joke, but for once he saw something flicker in Gibbons’ dead eyes.

“I know, I know,” Clay said. “My apologies, old friend. I’m so used to you being secured in our battle mech that I forgot you’ve been cursed with a flesh and bone body.”

“And metal,” Gibbons said. “There’s metal in here. With the flesh. There’s a reason these automatons are mindless creatures. Anything above basic intelligence and animal instinct is pure torture.”

“I hear what you’re saying, buddy,” Clay said. “We’re going to get the mech fixed up then get the hell out of this place. The Midlands can kiss my pilot ass.”

“That is an unfortunate attitude,” Morley said as he walked into the main cavern from a side passage.

“But an honest one,” Clay said. “Just trying to be realistic here, Barnes. The Midlands haven’t been kind to me or to Gibbons. We’ll get our mech put back together, get Gibbons uploaded where he is supposed to be, then be on our way.”

“Yes, well, you will still need metal parts for that,” Morley said. “I’m afraid those parts are right where you left them. At least, with my ingenuity and assistance, you have a mech that works well enough to get you back to the Vernacht. You are welcome to do your repairs there.”

“I was thinking I could go scavenge what I need with my mech and bring the parts back here,” Clay said. “You do have a nice repair facility with all the tools.”

“Oh, I am sure an experienced mech pilot such as yourself is used to doing repairs out on the open land,” Morley said. He nodded at the huge passage that led to the cavern’s exit. “You know the way.”

Clay stood and picked up his empty plate. “You seem like you’re in a mighty hurry to get us gone, Barnes. Any particular reason?”

“You seem like you are in a mighty hurry to leave,” Morley replied. “I see no reason to stop you. I also see no reason for you to remain here if your only interest is yourself. Despite the danger you put my daughter in.”

“That I put her in?” Clay laughed. “You have met your daughter, right? She doesn’t need a damn bit of help from anyone to get herself into danger. Hell, you should be thanking me since I’m the one that got her out of that death harness. Genius or not, that’s quite the design flaw there, Barnes. Captains may go down with their ships, but pilots shouldn’t have to die with their mechs.”

Morley looked as if he wanted to argue then his shoulders sagged and he nodded.

“You are correct, Mr. MacAulay,” Morley responded. “My apologies for sounding ungrateful. You did save my daughter from almost certain death.”

“Almost?” Clay asked. “Looked a little more than almost, if you ask me.”

“That is only due to your ignorance of matters as they stand,” Morley said and held up a hand before Clay could respond. “I do not want to fight with you, Mr. MacAulay. We have saved each other over these past couple of days. I would say our life debts have been satisfied and we can go our separate ways without guilt or obligation. What say you?”

“I say that sounds just perfect,” Clay said. He started to go fetch more salted meat, stopped, and looked halfway over his shoulder at Morley. “How is she? She going to be alright?”

“She will live,” Morley said. “She has a long recovery ahead. Fortunately, I can help her on that road. It is one we both have traveled many times.”

“That so?” Clay asked.

“That is so,” Morley answered. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to return to my daughter and continue my work.”

“Work?” Clay asked. “Funny way of phrasing it.”

“Not from my perspective,” Morley said.

He turned and walked back to the passage he had come from.

“Morley?” Gibbons called out. “You came in here for something. What was it?”

“Nothing,” Morley said. “I got what I needed and more.”

He exited the main cavern, leaving Gibbons and Clay to themselves once again.

“Well done, pal,” Gibbons said. “We had a comfortable place to work in and you had to go an insult the old man. Now we have to make repairs out in the open, in the weather, just like always. Bravo, pal, bravo.”

“Leave off, Gibbons,” Clay said. “You weren’t out there. You didn’t see those hounds.” He hesitated. “You didn’t hear her voice when she realized she was going to die.”

“We’ve both heard folks die,” Gibbons said. “Watched many a live person turn to a corpse before our eyes. Or your eyes and my scanners. What makes her so different?”

Clay thought for a moment then shook his head. “I don’t know. Honest truth, I don’t. But I have heard folks say they didn’t want to die, but behind their words was a lie. There was no lie with her. She was so sad that it was all coming to an end.”

“One day we’ll end up someplace where we don’t have a conversation like this,” Gibbons said. “Humans are so damn depressing.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” Clay said.

Clay went into the kitchen hut and fetched more salted meat. He came back out and sat down, chewing a hunk while he poured more beverage. Gibbons was laid out on his bench, his hands clasped behind his head as he stared up at the cavern’s ceiling.

“Barnes knew what biochrome was,” Gibbons said. “The battle mech may not have much in it, but it has enough to make a difference. He didn’t even hesitate as he started to manipulate what he could in order to get the flesh to fuse.”

“Another reason why we need to get out of these parts and put as much distance between us and Perdition Plains as possible,” Clay replied around a mouthful of meat. He swallowed hard, took a drink, swallowed again, and coughed. “We both know there is way more to Perdition Plains and the Barneses than anyone is letting on. And it ain’t just this business about lazaroti and ghouls.”

“Yeah, I am seeing that,” Gibbons said. “You think Holcomb can manipulate biochrome? I didn’t think it was possible. Shouldn’t be a person alive left to do that. With some exceptions.”

“The poly should have wiped out the genetics, but it didn’t,” Clay said. “We live that reality. Just like time should have wiped out the lazaroti, but it didn’t.”

“Maybe going where we need to go isn’t the best thing,” Gibbons said. “We may want to check out the other territories. See what else might be hiding in mountains and valleys. Could be an entire world of possibilities we’re unaware of.”

“The mech has those coordinates for a reason, Gibbons,” Clay said. “It’s been programmed. We’re hardly the people to argue with that programming.”

“I’m hardly people at all,” Gibbons chuckled. The chuckle was like a monotone bleating.

“No argument here on that,” Clay replied.

He stared out across the cavern at where the battle mech stood. His eyes studied the organic parts that were hooked into the metal. Flesh and sinew entwined with struts and paneling. It made Clay’s own flesh crawl and he shivered. He downed the last glass of beverage and finished his second helping of salted meat.

“I’m turning in,” Clay said as he stood and stretched. “You coming?”

“Unlike you, I got a full night’s sleep,” Gibbons said. “This body doesn’t have levels of fatigue like you do. It has on and it has off. When I’m tired, I’ll sleep, you can count on that.”

“Good to know,” Clay said. “Maybe you can take the mech out to the Vernacht and start scavenging?”

“You heard what Barnes said,” Gibbons replied. “He’d rather we do that when we leave. I think I’ll stay right here and keep watch.”

Clay raised an eyebrow. “You think the old man is a threat?”

“I think the old man is about as stable as this body,” Gibbons said. “Which is to say that, at some point, he’s going to break down, and it’s all gonna turn into one nasty mess.”

“Makes me think twice about getting some shut eye,” Clay said.

“Nah, go on ahead and get your beauty sleep, pal,” Gibbons said. “I’ll keep an eye on Dr. Frankenstein.”

“Who?” Clay asked.

“You know that story,” Gibbons said. “I read it to you when we were fleeing the Brazilian Empire.”

“Right,” Clay said. “That time was a bit of a jumble. Something about a man that creates people out of dead parts, right?”

“That would be the one,” Gibbons replied.

Gibbons sat up and looked towards the passage that Morley had gone into. Clay stared that way as well. They were both silent for a long time.

“You don’t think…?” Clay asked then trailed off.

“I’m trying not to,” Gibbons said. “But the similarities are uncanny.”

Clay shook his head and sighed. “I’m getting some sleep. Fatigue is making me paranoid.”

“I wouldn’t call healthy caution paranoia, pal,” Gibbons said, still staring at the passage. “You sleep while I keep an eye out for the old man. He starts looking like maybe his hospitality has completely run dry and I’ll get us both the hell out of here right quick.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Clay said. He yawned. “Hopefully, he can keep from losing the rest of his marbles for at least four to six hours.”

“Fingers crossed,” Gibbons said. He crossed his grey fingers, and it hardly looked like the good luck symbol it was meant to be.

Clay nodded then went and found his hut. He kicked off his boots, but kept them close at hand as he lay down in the rickety cot. Always be ready to run.

Twenty-Four

Sleep came quickly, but it was a tumultuous rest as images of the tweener hounds kept rushing through his mind. The one he fought on the Vernacht stalked him through his dreams. They weren’t really so much dreams as they were a continuous stream of images and locations he’d experienced through his life. But the constant was that the tweener hound was always on his ass. It didn’t matter if he was five and sitting in the dirt dealing with yet another bloody nose or if he was jumping from treetop to treetop in the Amazon canopy, there was the hound on his heels.

Clay tossed and turned, making small noises, and not so small noises, as he mentally fled his abominable pursuer. His hands clutched the thin blanket that was partially draped over him. He gnashed his teeth, almost drawing blood as he bit down on the inside of his cheek. His legs kicked out, sometimes moving rhythmically like he was running in his sleep.

He was running. He was running from not just the hound, but from every single second of his past. History stalked him as much as the hound did. Faces he’d held dear in life, faces he’d held dead in life. Faces, bodies, blood, so much blood, screams, wails, cries for help, the long howl of a man that would never rest until every inch of Clay’s body had the flesh flayed right off it.

Clay was running, and he would never stop.

He sat up and swallowed the scream that had almost made it from his throat to breach his lips. Confusion, disorientation, the inevitable realization that he knew where he was, but that didn’t really make it any better.

Awake, asleep, Clay was always running and he would never stop.

“You good?” Gibbons asked from a chair by the small, wide open window cut into the hut’s wall. His chin rested in his hand as he watched the main cavern. “That was a bad one.”

“You’re telling me,” Clay said as he swung his legs over the side of the cot and pulled on his boots. “Gonna need another shower just to wash off the night sweat.”

He stood, stretched, winced at the whole body pain he was experiencing, then walked over to Gibbons.

“Anything?” Clay asked.

“Nothing,” Gibbons replied. “Barnes hasn’t shown his face since he walked away earlier. Hasn’t come to fetch any rotten meat, hasn’t come to check on us, hasn’t come to do anything. Whatever is going on back in that passage is consuming his attention.”

“Maybe he fell asleep back there,” Clay said. “Mad scientists usually have cots in their labs. Isn’t that what the stories say? They work themselves to exhaustion and collapse to sleep for a few hours before dragging themselves up to start the madness all over again?”

“I think part of that story I told you is starting to come back,” Gibbons said. “You know, I have a thousand more stories in the mech’s database. I should read you more.”

“I’m not that dent kid anymore, Gibbons,” Clay said. “But thank you for the offer. I think I prefer silence as we travel.”

Clay stretched again.

“Speaking of, I’m going to give the mech a good going over,” Clay said.

“I already have,” Gibbons said.

“And?” Clay asked, smirking.

“And you’re going to do it again anyway because that’s what you do,” Gibbons said and shrugged.

“Exactly,” Clay said. He rubbed his head and ran his fingers through his tangled hair. “Don’t let me forget to take a look around the Vernacht in that spot where I squished Mr. Bell, okay?”

“Gonna look for your hat?” Gibbons asked.

“Yep,” Clay replied.

“It ain’t gonna be pretty, pal,” Gibbons said. “You did an awful number on Mr. Bell.”

“If it ain’t destroyed then I can clean it,” Clay said. “Hell knows I’ve cleaned worse out of it.”

“That is a fact,” Gibbons said. “Let me know if I missed anything when I checked the mech.”

“You know I will,” Clay laughed.

“Yes, I do,” Gibbons said.

Clay left the hut and walked quickly to the battle mech. He stared at the rungs that threaded up the machine’s leg with distaste. He wasn’t looking forward to the climb.

Surprisingly, the exercise seemed to work out more than a few knots from his neck and shoulders and he was feeling slightly revived when he reached the cockpit. The hatch was open and he climbed right in.

The first thing Clay noticed were the intestine cables that were hooked into half the consoles, snaking from the back of the pilot’s seat directly into the control boards. His instinct was to yank them out, but if Gibbons had left them, then they were there for a reason. Clay had to remind himself that the flesh was only there until he could replace it with metal.

He sat down in the pilot’s seat and powered up the mech. To his surprise, all systems came on instantly. The mech hummed with power. He studied the gauges and was even more surprised to see that all power cells had been replaced and were running at optimal efficiency. He dug a little deeper and was even more surprised to see that the power cells were actual mech cells, not some fleshy hybrids. That bode well for their journey.

Clay went through every checklist he could think of. Twice. He examined systems he hadn’t thought of in years. He opened up panels that probably hadn’t done a damn thing when they were first installed and he couldn’t ever remember opening before. The mech was working like a charm. At least while stationary. The proof would be when he took it out of the cavern and walked it across the open landscape. A sitting mech could look fine, but problems always showed themselves when motion was applied.

As satisfied as he could be, Clay climbed down from the mech. He considered gathering up the few things he had in the hut and telling Gibbons it was time to go. But as much as he wanted to get the hell out of the Midlands, he couldn’t go without saying goodbye.

Goodbye to Paige, at least.

“Grab the gear,” he told Gibbons as he tucked his head into the hut. “I’m going to make our farewells and see if maybe Barnes is open to parting with some food and water. Hell knows when we’ll see any of that again.”

“We get me back in my proper drive matrix, and I won’t have to worry about any of that biological hoo ha,” Gibbons said, still seated by the window.

“Biological hoo ha?” Clay asked. “Is that what you’ve reduced human existence down to?”

Gibbons shrugged. “Makes as much sense as this meat bag,” he said then smacked his chest. “Ugh. Get me out of this thing, will ya?”

“Let me thank our host and we can head to the Vernacht,” Clay said.

“You just want another peek at that pretty lady,” Gibbons said.

“I want to say goodbye to someone that has done nothing but help us,” Clay said. “If she’s awake.”

“And if she isn’t?” Gibbons asked. “We’re still leaving, right? You aren’t going to come up with an excuse to stay, are you?”

“There’s no excuse alive that could keep me here any longer than I have to,” Clay said. “Pretty lady or not, we need to get the hell out of the Midlands before this cursed land destroys us.”

“Amen to that, pal,” Gibbons said. He stood and looked about the hut. “This should take me about five seconds. I’ll meet you in the mech when you’re done with whatever it is you feel you gotta do.”

“Thanks,” Clay said.

He crossed the main cavern, a thousand words filling his mind. He had no idea how he was going to say goodbye to Paige. She’d saved him, he’d saved her, they’d shared something. It wasn’t exactly the heat of battle they had been in, but it was pretty damn close. There was a connection, and Clay felt bad for severing it so abruptly.

Not that he didn’t have reason.

Clay found the passage that Morley had come and gone from. He waited by the opening and listened. Far off, a faint echo, he could hear the old man talking to himself. He also heard the distinct hum of electrical generators. Clay wasn’t a mad scientist, not even close to being a genius, but he knew what generators sounded like.

Again, his hand strayed to the empty spot on his hip where his revolver should have been.

“Dammit,” he muttered. He wasn’t sure if he was cursing because the pistol wasn’t there or because his first instinct was always to grab for it.

He walked down the passage, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. It was a long passage, and the temperature dropped considerably the further he walked. The light behind him had almost dwindled to nothing when a light ahead guided his way. Clay came to a fork in the passage, both well-lit and he stopped to decide which way to go.

Morley’s mutterings came from the left, so that decided things for Clay and he followed that half of the fork.

The room Clay stepped into was fairly large. It didn’t look like it had been a natural creation, but cut out of the rock itself. Clay could see the tell-tale swirls left behind by machinery and heavy tools.

That brief observation was all that kept him from gasping as he stepped all the way into the room. If he hadn’t been distracted by that detail, he might have said more than a few things he would have regretted. Or maybe not. No way to tell.

What he did say as he saw the row after row of vats with wires attached to them was, “What the hell is this, Barnes? Sweet hell, are those bodies?”

Twenty-Five

Morley slowly straightened up from a vat he was leaning over. His back was to Clay, but it wasn’t hard to tell he was upset.

“Mr. MacAulay,” Morley said without turning around. “I was under the impression you were leaving. I also do not recall inviting you back here. This is my personal laboratory, and you have no right interrupting me. It is fortunate I was only fetching a replacement component and not in the middle of something delicate.”

Morley did turn around then, and Clay was halfway between shock and a complete lack of surprise that the older man was holding a forearm with hand still attached. The hand dangled by its limp wrist, and the fingers jiggled when Morley moved to approach Clay.

“Nope,” Clay said. “You can stay right there, Barnes.”

“You are hardly in a position to give me orders in my own laboratory,” Morley said.

The way he pronounced the word “laboratory” only added to the mad scientist vibe of the room. Not that the vats of human body parts allowed for any confusion about the mad aspect of the science that was being conducted.

“I think I’m in a fine position to give orders,” Clay said. “Keep walking towards me with that dead limb, and you’ll find your position is flat on your face on the ground.”

“You overstate your abilities, Mr. MacAulay,” Morley said. “I appear old, which, if we are honest, I am. Very old. But, this body has far more strength to it than first meets the eye. Its aged nature is simply because I tend to drain life force so much faster than my daughter does. Perhaps it is my intellect, perhaps it is my constant drive for perfection of my work. Or it simply could be that my daughter possesses so much more vitality in her nature than I do. I am unsure.”

He gestured with the severed limb and shook his head.

“I have spent lifetimes trying to deduce an answer, but all I have done is prolong the research,” he continued. “Not that I see that as a dilemma. An eternity of science? What more could I ask for.”

“Possibly some sanity?” Clay suggested. “Because you are about as batshit as the corners of these caves.”

“I can assure you that Myotis lucifugus has not resided in these caverns for some time,” Morley said. “Mites decimated the population decades ago. It was sad, not hearing their squeaking during the day while I worked. Even if their droppings became somewhat of a nuisance. Although, the guano did make for excellent fuel. Not to mention as a nematicide. Nematodes can be a problem when working with reanimated flesh. A roundworm infestation is just devastating to—”

“Shut up,” Clay snapped. “Stop babbling about whatever the hell it is you’re babbling about. I don’t care about bats, I don’t care about toads, I don’t care about anything except for an explanation as to what the hell you are doing here.”

“A moment, if you please,” Morley said as he turned back to the vat and set the limb inside. He spent a couple minutes reattaching wires then wiped his hands on his apron, his bloody apron, and turned back around. “There. The components do not last for long outside of the vats. Thirty more seconds, and I would have had to start trimming away necrotic tissue. It makes the grafts so much harder.”

Clay stared at Morley. Morley stared at Clay.

“You have questions,” Morley stated finally.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Clay said. “But really only one. Where the hell is Paige?”

“Yes…Paige,” Morley said and his face fell. His lips twitched in the corners, the beginnings of a sad smile that never fully formed. He gestured to a long work table with two stools set under it. “Have a seat, if you will, Mr. MacAulay. I think I should explain. Not that I feel any obligation to you, of course, but I believe Paige would want you to understand us. She has been so fearful you would see us as monsters when that is so far from the truth.”

“We? Paige is involved with this…” He gestured at the room. “This butcher shop?”

“Butcher shop? You insult me, Mr. MacAulay,” Morley exclaimed as he pulled out a stool and sat. “There is absolutely no butchery occurring here. Careful dissection only. Butcher shop, indeed. What do you take me for? One of the Perditions? They are ghouls, animals in human form. They are the butchers. Not me.”

“If you say so,” Clay replied.

“I do,” Morley huffed. “I do…”

He rubbed his palms across his thighs and nodded at the second stool.

“Sit. Please,” Morley said. Clay did not sit. “Please.”

Reluctantly, and making quite the show of it, Clay pulled out the stool and sat. He was ramrod stiff, and his eyes never left Morley.

“Your fight or flight response is in full view, Mr. MacAulay,” Morley said. When Clay didn’t come close to cracking a smile, Morley cleared his throat. “Where should I start?”

“I’m guessing that’s rhetorical,” Clay replied.

“Is it? Yes, I suppose it is,” Morley said. “How could you possibly know where I should start? Perhaps at the beginning.”

He took a deep breath, slapped his palms on his thighs, and said. “I am over two hundred years old, Mr. MacAulay. My daughter is over one hundred years old.” He held up a finger. “Yes, she is my actual daughter, born from the womb of a woman I loved dearly. That woman, my wife, did not survive childbirth. I had warned her, warned her with every ounce of my being, that there was a distinct possibility that she would not live, but she insisted. She wanted a child. I had made her wait one hundred years to have Paige. I would have been a true monster to make her wait any longer.”

“Where do you get the body parts?” Clay asked.

“In due time,” Morley responded. “Let me tell you how any of this is possible. You see, Mr. MacAulay, the Bloody Conflict was bloody indeed. It lasted how long? How many decades of warfare ravaged this continent? Splitting the territories into NorthAm and the MexiCalis. Seven? Eight decades?”

“At least that,” Clay said. “If you are as old as you say, then you’d be the one to know.”

“Yes, I would,” Morley replied. “Yes, I would indeed. It was seven decades with an eighth added on as each side dealt with the continual squabbles that erupted as territory boundaries were finalized. Some folks were not happy with the shifting of the borders, Mr. MacAulay. I was one of those folks.”

“You and every other citizen that got caught up in that mess,” Clay said. “I’m getting bored with the history lesson, old man. Get to the facts.”

“The facts are this,” Morley said. “I had already developed my technique when the Bloody Conflict broke out. That war allowed me to perfect it, though.”

“You said you are over two hundred years old,” Clay said. “If you are talking Bloody Conflict, then you are starting in the middle of your story.”

“Indeed I am,” Morley said. “I want you to understand that the only reason I continued along the path I began was because my wife wanted a child, and I wanted my child to live through decades of horrible, horrible violence. I did what I did out of scientific curiosity, at first, but then it became a matter of survival. It became a matter of my daughter’s survival.”

Morley’s eyes burned with fire.

“I will do anything to see that my daughter survives,” Morley snarled, a sound so uncharacteristic that Clay nearly fell off his stool. Morley laughed. “My apologies. I do get passionate when I speak of my Paige.”

“Parents can be that way,” Clay said.

“They can,” Morley said. “One day perhaps you will know that feeling.”

Clay opened his mouth then closed it. Morley cocked his head, but didn’t ask the obvious question.

Instead, he asked, “Am I correct in assuming that you care for Paige?”

“In a manner,” Clay admitted.

“In what manner?” Morley asked.

“In the manner that I care for her as much as I can care for someone I barely know and is an admitted lazaroti,” Clay said.

“Ah, but there lies the rub,” Morley said. “She is not a lazaroti. Neither am I. The Perditions and their kind are, yes, but we Barnes are no such creatures.”

“But you said—” Clay started.

“We said what we needed to say for simplicity’s sake,” Morley said and spread his arms wide. “As you see, things are far from simplistic.”

“If you aren’t lazaroti, then what are you?” Clay asked.

“I consider us manufactured immortals,” Morley said and frowned. “I am still searching for a better term, yet even after all these many years, I have not thought of one.”

“Manufactured immortals?” Clay asked. “You can’t die?”

“Of course we can die!” Morley exclaimed. “You nearly witnessed that with Paige! If you were to put a bullet in my brain right now, I would fall down as dead as any other person! A knife to the belly, albeit a slow death, would be just as effective!”

“Okay, okay, calm the hell down,” Clay said, holding up his hands as Morley continued to get wound up. “I get the picture. You can be killed. But somehow you can’t die, either. That’s fair to say, ain’t it?”

“Yes, it is fair to say,” Morley said. “With science’s help.”

He reached out and tapped his finger against a long set of small drawers that sat on the back of the work table.

“Let’s see, let’s see, I have one here,” Morley said absently as he pulled open a couple drawers, inspected their contents, then settled on a last one. “Ah, here we are.”

He held up a small microchip, no bigger than the size of a pinky fingernail.

“The integrated consciousness transfer chip,” Morley announced.

“Reaper chip,” Clay whispered before he could stop himself.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Morley asked.

Clay stiffened, but kept his face passive. As passive as he could considering what he was looking at.

“You invented that?” Clay asked casually.

“I, what?” Morley replied. “Oh, no, not me. This is ancient technology. Centuries old. From the first rebuild of society. I believe, if my research is correct, they called it a Death chip. I have no idea why.”

Morley eyed him very carefully then smiled.

“Mr. MacAulay? Have you ever seen a chip like this?” he asked.

“What? No,” Clay replied.

“Mr. MacAulay, I may look old, which I am, but I can assure you that my hearing is top notch,” Morley said. “I heard what you whispered.”

“I didn’t whisper anything,” Clay replied.

“Oh, but you did, Mr. MacAulay,” Morley said, and his smile widened. “The Reaper chip. That is exactly what this is called. I had a distinct feeling you would know that. Especially after discovering the forbidden alloy in your battle mech’s components. You have a backstory I’d very much like to hear.”

“No backstory,” Clay said. “Just a guy with a mech wandering the open land.”

“That is a shame,” Morley said. “I thought you would be more forthcoming. I know exactly what this chip is and what it does—”

“Apparently not,” Clay interrupted, “or you wouldn’t be telling me you’re immortal. Manufactured or not,” Clay nodded at the microchip Morley still held, “that is a ticking time bomb. When it goes off, it will fry your brainpan.”

“Not this one, Mr. MacAulay,” Morley said. “Nor the ones inserted inside my skull or Paige’s skull. Ours are not like the millions that were created to control the population those dozens of centuries ago.”

Clay didn’t respond. He wanted to. There were so many things he could say, but he knew if he opened his mouth things would not go well for either of them.

“Do you know of which Reaper chips I am referring to?” Morley asked. Clay remained quiet. “I believe you do. I believe that somewhere in your education you have been told all about them. I believe that your ‘wanderings,’ as you call them, are connected with chips like these. These specific chips that do not fry their hosts’ brains, but simply allow for the perfect cerebral integration between pilot and mech. I believe you have one implanted in your skull right now.”

Clay’s eyes widened then he smiled. A smile that matched Morley’s, causing the old man’s to slowly fade from his face.

“What?” Morley asked, looking offended. “What are you smiling about?”

“I thought you knew something. You know nothing, Barnes,” Clay said and shook his head. He stood up from the stool and looked at the way out of the room. “I want to see Paige.”

“I do not think that is a good idea,” Morley said.

“I do,” Clay said.

“And if I refuse?” Morley asked. “She is my daughter, Mr. MacAulay. I have the right to refuse you.”

“I’m going to see Paige,” Clay said. “I want to see what you are doing.”

“I do not think that a good idea,” Morley said. “You will not like what you see.”

“I figured,” Clay said. He glared at Morley. “But I have to see with my own eyes.”

“Yes, I suppose you do,” Morley sighed.

He placed the microchip back in the drawer and stood up. His bones cracked and he chuckled to himself.

“Immortality does not come without a price,” Morley said. “One day, I will pay that price, but not today.”

He reached out to clap Clay on the shoulder then withdrew his hand at the look Clay gave him.

“Unfortunately, today my daughter pays the price,” Morley said. “It is too soon, but that is why we have science.”

Twenty-Six

Surprisingly, the room did not stink of rotted meat or of blood. Clay thought it should, considering the many more vats of bloody liquid and body parts that lined the room’s walls. Yet there was an almost clean smell to the space. Ozone and oxygen like when you stood next to a huge waterfall and the air was infused with the scent of Nature’s power.

But Clay did not dwell on scents. He did not dwell on the vats that lined the walls. He did not dwell on memories of waterfalls seen long ago before he was forced to enter the territories of the MexiCalis and leave the beauty of the Brazilian Empire behind.

Not that he missed the Brazilian Empire. The brutality trumped the beauty, easily.

Paige lay on a long metal table. Or most of her did. Some of her.

“Sweet hell, what have you done to her?” Clay gasped.

“I have done nothing to her,” Morley said, pushing past Clay to get to the table. “This is what happens when the flesh is no longer viable. It must be replaced.”

Paige’s torso, with only head and left arm attached, lay there, still as a fallen statue. A thousand wires were connected to her naked skin and Clay wanted to look away, not out of squeamishness for her nudity, but because the sight was too familiar. He’d seen such horrors as a child, although they were far from scientific. Unless one considered never ending torture a science. Clay figured some did.

“Replaced?” Clay asked, catching up to Morley’s words. “With the parts in the other room?”

“Components,” Morley corrected. “They are simply components. See these vats? I keep a fresh stock on hand for myself and for Paige. These vats are Paige’s. I know each component like the back of my hand.” He paused and looked at the backs of both hands then sighed. “That is until I must obtain new hands. That is the terrifying part of my existence, Mr. MacAulay. All that learned muscle memory gone. I must begin again each and every time.”

“That’s the terrifying part?” Clay laughed. It was a sick, disturbed laugh. “You may want to work on your definition of terrifying.”

“I have lived long enough to not be affected by what you must consider horrors here before you,” Morley said. “That feeling was lost so many, many decades ago.”

Clay couldn’t bring himself to approach the dismantled body before him. He wanted to. He wanted to get closer and see her chest rise so he could know she was a living, breathing person, but Clay knew that if he did approach her, it would only make the scene worse. His mind could not admit that it was Paige he was seeing.

So, Clay turned and began to walk the perimeter of the room. He approached a vat instead, leaning over to peer inside the opaque liquid that was the color, but not quite the consistency of blood. A thousand more wires protruded from the back of the tank, the same kind of wires that were hooked into Paige.

“Please do not touch,” Morley said as he worked at some task over Paige’s body. Clay did not look close enough to see what the task was. He couldn’t do that. Not yet.

“What am I not touching?” Clay asked. “An arm? A leg? A whole new head?”

“Head? Oh, my, no,” Morley said. “That would be over there.”

Clay started at the admittance and looked up. He snapped around and looked at Morley who was pointing to an upright tank on the far wall. Inside was a woman’s head. It looked nothing like Paige. The skin was pale, the hair was red. Clay couldn’t see the color of the head’s eyes, but he was certain they wouldn’t be golden like Paige’s.

“You gotta be joking,” Clay said quietly as he left the vat and walked across the room to the tank with the head. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“If I was, you’d need to be next to the vat in the corner,” Morley said and chuckled. “That’s where the legs are.”

Clay whirled around to stare at him. The old man was grinning from ear to ear. The grin slowly faded, and he returned his attention to his work on Paige’s torso.

“I apologize,” Morley said. “I forget that this does not seem normal to you. Again, I have been dealing with this process for so long that it is all second nature to me.”

“Not much nature here,” Clay said and continued his approach to the head in the tank.

Unlike the vats that lined the walls, the tank was vertical, not horizontal. Also, unlike the others, the liquid was clear. Or mostly clear. Translucent, at least, and not a bloody opaque like the vats.

Clay was less than half a meter away when the eyes popped open. They were bright green and widened with the universal look of complete shock and terror. Then the mouth opened in a soundless scream. There was no body attached to the head, so no lungs to produce bubbles. Clay thought how horrible it was to scream, but make no sound, make no bubbles.

“What the unholy hell?” Clay gasped as he took a few steps backwards. “This head is alive.”

“All of the components are alive, Mr. MacAulay,” Morley said. “If I let them die, then they would be useless to me and my daughter. We are not ghouls, we are not lazaroti. I thought I explained this to you. To maintain our lives, we must maintain life in the components that will become us.”

Clay spun about and stared at the old man. He stared at Paige’s torso. He closed his eyes for ten long seconds, counting out each one until his heartbeat was at a manageable rate. Two deep breaths, another ten count, and he was able to open his eyes.

“I’m leaving,” Clay said.

“Oh, but Mr. MacAulay, we have so much to discuss,” Morley said. “I must learn what knowledge you have of the Reaper chips. Your experience and expertise are invaluable to myself and my daughter.” He tapped his temple with a blood-smeared finger and Clay winced. “What you have up here could be the key to how I avoid having to constantly procure new components and perform these horrific assemblies.”

“Yeah, I don’t think…” Clay muttered. “Procure components? From where? How do you procure components?”

“That is a very good question,” Morley sighed. “I must say it is not easy. Not easy at all. It takes careful planning and is very, very dangerous.”

“Is that why the Perdition Plains folks have it out for you?” Clay asked.

“What? Oh, heavens no!” Morley exclaimed. “I could no more use components from one of those things than I could from a rotted corpse. They are not compatible. Not in the least. No, no, we have to look much farther than that disgusting little town.”

“Where then?” Clay asked. “What towns are close?”

“In the Midlands? None worthy of our attention,” Morley said. “The level of malnutrition and disease that runs rampant across these plains is just staggering. The people that inhabit the Midlands are barely more than animals. Animals that spread their pestilence from horrid settlement to horrid settlement. No, Mr. MacAulay, I would never defile mine or my daughter’s minds with such filth.”

“Then where?” Clay asked. His voice had lost its shock and was turning to cold steel. He had an idea from where.

“I am sure you have guessed already,” Morley said. “Where else would we be able to fetch such fine components?”

“Sweet hell,” Clay said. “That’s why the NorthAm rollers chased us away from the border before we could even talk to them. You’ve been crossing into their territory and stealing people. Stealing bodies to bring back here in order to mutilate them for your own selfish needs.”

“They are not mutilated,” Morley replied, offended. “I am a craftsman and scientist of the utmost caliber, Mr. MacAulay. I work with precision when handling flesh.”

“You’re a sick fuck,” Clay said. He pointed at Paige. “You have messed her up. If you are really her father, which I have no idea if that is true or not, then you’d let her die a natural death and have some peace.”

“Is there peace in death?” Morley asked, more to himself than to Clay. “I would hope so, but until I can be for certain then we will continue on our path.”

“You keep saying we,” Clay said. “Don’t you mean you? You’re the monster, not her. You have done this to her!”

“Me?” Morley asked, even more offended than before. “Mr. MacAulay, I am proficient in the piloting of my flesh mechs, but I am nowhere near the skill of my Paige. I would blunder and stumble my way across the NorthAm border and be detected almost instantly. Paige is the one with the skill to stealthily move across and procure what is needed.”

“You’re shitting me,” Clay said. “Paige? She kidnaps people and brings them back to you? Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit,” Morley said. “Look, now you have me so upset I am sounding like you. Oh, how I abhor foul language. We have so many words to choose from yet people such as yourself continue to use the most base of them.”

“I use what fits the situation,” Clay said. “Bullshit is a kindness, considering.”

Morley stopped his work and put his bloody hands on his hips. They stained the last couple of patches of semi-clean material on his apron. He looked Clay up and down then rolled his eyes.

“Well, Mr. MacAulay? Are you leaving or are you staying? Please decide soon so I may return to my work,” Morley said. “You are welcome to stay, but I will require you keep your judgment to yourself and swear that you will not interfere with what I am doing here. Or you may leave immediately and once again make your way alone across the continent. Whatever you choose, I need an answer now.”

“I’ll be leaving,” Clay said. “I’m taking my mech and heading to the Vernacht for repairs. And I won’t be alone. Gibbons will be with me.”

“Yes, Gibbons,” Morley said. “I wish you luck in transferring his AI consciousness back into your battle mech’s matrix. I would help, but as I have stated, I am busy. I wish you luck on your travels, as well. Good day.”

Morley returned to Paige’s torso as if Clay was no longer standing in the room. In seconds, he was whistling an old song that asked the question of who wanted to live forever.

Clay said nothing as he hurried from the room. He stumbled his way down the passage and burst into the main cavern. Gibbons was carrying a bag in each hand and had several water skins draped over his shoulders.

“Uh oh,” he said. “I know that face and that is the we are getting the hell out of here as fast as we can face. What happened?”

“Just get in the mech,” Clay said.

“How about you climb up there and lower a hand, pal?” Gibbons said. “I have my arms full, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Right,” Clay said.

He climbed the mech faster than he had ever climbed it. Once in the cockpit, he hesitated, but only for a moment. The intestine cables that snaked out of the pilot’s seat gave him pause, but he didn’t have time to disconnect them and he wasn’t sure what that would do to the mech. The best thing was to leave them be and take them apart once he knew they had the right parts from the Vernacht to make the mech fully metal again.

Clay MacAulay was done with flesh mechs, partially flesh mechs, and goddamn tweeners. He wanted the hell out of the Midlands and fast.

He powered the mech up and lowered a hand to Gibbons.

“Get on and get in,” Clay said. “We are out of this madhouse.”

“Roger that,” Gibbons called up to him.

Clay had the mech moving and heading from the cavern before Gibbons was fully in the cockpit and strapped into a jumpseat.

“That bad?” Gibbons asked.

“We’ll talk on the way,” Clay said. “Right now, we get our asses gone from here.”

Twenty-Seven

“They are what?” Gibbons exclaimed. Or exclaimed as much as his monotone voice would allow. “He said what?”

“I don’t know what they are,” Clay replied. “But they aren’t human no matter what that old madman says.”

“Raiding NorthAm border villages for body parts?” Gibbons said. “What the holy hell? We’ve seen some messed up things, but this is close to the top.”

“I wouldn’t put it all the way to the top,” Clay said, “but, yeah, it sure is damn close.”

“Good thing we have two sets of hands now,” Gibbons said. “We should be able to get the repairs done to the mech faster and be on our way. The question is which way.”

“Not towards NorthAm,” Clay said. “The Barneses burned that bridge for us. No mech will cross that border for a long while.” He furrowed his brow. “Mechs…”

“What was that?” Gibbons asked.

“Mechs,” Clay repeated. “One of the last things Barnes said was that he was proficient with his flesh mechs. Mechs. Plural. Do you think he has more than one of those things?”

“If he does, I didn’t see it,” Gibbons said. “All I saw was the one mech. The Prometheus.”

“Which he repaired pretty damn fast after that fight with Mr. Bell,” Clay said.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Gibbons responded. “He also wasn’t as upset as I thought he’d be when we saw his flesh mech lying in a heap of bits and pieces after Paige fought off those tweener hounds.”

“He’s got another flesh mech,” Clay said. “Maybe two or three more.”

“Why?” Gibbons asked.

“For raids and maybe for war,” Clay said. “He was awfully disgusted by the Perditions and those townsfolk. Maybe he intended to do something about them so they’d leave him alone to do the sick work he does.”

“Could be,” Gibbons said. “Might explain why the folks in charge were eager for our mech. Too bad they picked a fight with us before using it to fight the Barneses. If that was their aim.”

“We stepped into another damned range war,” Clay said. “We really need to stop doing that.”

“Amen,” Gibbons said.

“It’s probably not going to happen,” Clay admitted.

“True,” Gibbons agreed. “Nothing but damn range wars on this continent.”

“Gonna have to leave the continent,” Clay said.

“Is that the goal?” Gibbons asked.

“Not sure,” Clay replied. “We’ll find out when we reach the coordinates.”

“If we reach the coordinates,” Gibbons added.

“Yeah, that’s about what it’s feeling like lately,” Clay said.

“Lately?” Gibbons chuckled in his monotone. “I think our entire journey has been one big if, pal. One giant, stinking pile of if.”

Clay didn’t respond, just let the subject drop as he piloted the mech across the prairie to the shape of the Vernacht which luckily was still standing as tall as it could over the swaying grasses.

It took them longer than it needed to approach the Vernacht. Clay wanted to take it slow and make sure there wasn’t an ambush lying in wait. But when they finally reached the construction mech, they saw that all that was lying there was the far-off mound of rotting flesh mech and the putrefying bodies of the tweener hounds.

“You have a list of what we need?” Clay asked Gibbons as he parked the mech and unstrapped from the pilot’s seat. “This has to go fast and efficiently so we can get the hell out of here before any more weirdness gets dropped on us.”

“I’ve got a list of the bare essentials,” Gibbons said. “We work on this crap then we start in on the luxuries.”

“Luxuries,” Clay scoffed. “That better not include the toilet.”

“It doesn’t,” Gibbons said. “No way I want you crapping in my mech.”

“Your mech, eh?” Clay replied.

“You know what I mean,” Gibbons said and climbed over the lip of the cockpit to the waiting hand. “Alright, send me over. I have a good idea of where to find everything since I was stuck in the Vernacht’s system for a spell.”

Clay didn’t lower the hand, just sent it across the space between mechs. With the Vernacht up on its feet, it was much easier to coordinate movement back and forth. One arm of the battle mech basically became a bridge to the main deck while the other arm was a bridge to the decks below.

Clay set the battle mech’s stabilizers and followed Gibbons across to the Vernacht.

It took them an hour to gather the basic parts and get them back to the battle mech. It was another hour before they had finished testing the parts to make sure they were compatible. A third hour to run some trials on each part to make sure they were not only compatible, but would hold up to the stress that would be needed if they were going to handle life out in the open lands and the conflicts that the battle mech would eventually encounter.

“We’re losing daylight,” Clay said.

“I can see fine,” Gibbons said.

“You got dead man’s eyes,” Clay said. “I’m sure you can see just fine.”

“No need to get bigoted on me,” Gibbons said. “I can’t help who I am now.”

“When are we going to fix that?” Clay asked. “How soon can we transfer you back to your proper drives?”

“Once we get the basic repairs done,” Gibbons said. “That should give all the systems enough stability to handle the awesome power of Gibbons.”

“Talk in the third person again, and I’ll short circuit that dead brain of yours and leave you to rot with the tweeners,” Clay said.

“Someone is a pissy grump and needs to take a break,” Gibbons said. “How about I keep working on this console while you sit your ass down on some of that fine prairie dirt and eat a bite or two?”

Clay began to argue, but his stomach growled so loud that he couldn’t help but smile and nod.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll go eat more oh so flippin’ delicious salted meat and drink more refreshing warm water. Then it’s your turn to eat and rest.”

“Nothing for me to eat,” Gibbons said.

“What?” Clay exclaimed and dug through the food bags Gibbons had brought onto the mech. Salted meat only. Plenty of salted meat. “Where’s the stinky stuff? Why didn’t you pack some of that rotten bison?”

“Didn’t think I’d need it,” Gibbons said. “I’m ditching this meat bag and getting back to my comfy circuits soon. No need to waste time and feed this pile of yuck.”

“There is if you want the pile of yuck to run right,” Clay said. “Dammit, Gibbons, you can’t make decisions like that when you don’t know a damn thing about having a flesh and bone body. That was just stupid.”

“Maybe, but my stupid column is still shorter than yours,” Gibbons replied.

“I don’t care,” Clay said and climbed out of the cockpit with a couple handfuls of salted meat stuffed into his pockets and a water skin over his shoulder. “I’m going to take my break. Do as much as you can before I get back because it’ll be your break next even if you don’t have any food to eat. Rest will do you some good.”

“You ain’t my mom,” Gibbons said.

Clay laughed. “How long have you been waiting to say that?”

“I have no idea,” Gibbons said. “I don’t think I ever have really wanted to, but now I get to since I have a body.”

“I don’t want to know what birthed that body of yours,” Clay said.

He climbed across the extended mech arm and found the steps down to the Vernacht’s lower decks. Deck by deck, he made it to a ladder he could kick loose and drop to the ground. It slid easily in its tracks and the bottom landed with a thump in the soft earth below.

Clay was actually quite happy to be standing on the ground once again despite the smell of rot wafting his way every time the breeze shifted in the Vernacht’s direction from the tweener hounds and fallen flesh mech.

He sat down cross-legged, pulled out a loose handkerchief and emptied his pockets of the salted meat onto it. He longed for something fresh, but he took what he got. Maybe, if they had time, he’d hunt for some dandelion greens or sweetgrass before they were on their way to wherever they would be on their way to.

The past few days whirled around in Clay’s mind, and he tried to make sense of them as he chewed slowly on the meat. Chewing slowly was the only way to eat salted meat. Chew too fast and you risked pulling something in your jaw.

The folks in charge back at Perdition Plains had stated they wanted his mech. They didn’t want him specifically, but they wanted his mech. They needed it to fight off the Barneses and their flesh mech. Or mechs? Clay still wasn’t sure.

Or did the folks in charge need his mech not to fight off the Barneses’ flesh mech so much as to fight against it? There was a difference, Clay knew. If the Barneses were immortal, mechanically or whatever, then wouldn’t the Perditions and the townsfolk want a piece of that forever action?

No, that didn’t make sense. The Perditions and the townsfolk were lazaroti. As long as they kept eating what they needed to eat, then they’d live for a very long time. Or would they?

Clay had heard of lazaroti, but never come across their like before. They weren’t rightly immortal. They did live for decades, maybe even centuries, but the image of the Perdition siblings sitting in a row, their cheeks sunken in, their skin so sickly they could have been corpses set in chairs, flashed across Clay’s brain, and he thought he had the answer.

The folks in charge wanted new bodies. Morley had the bodies they wanted. He also had a way to transfer their consciousnesses from their nearly desiccated husks into the new bodies.

The Reaper chips.

Clay sighed and ate more salted meat. He didn’t want to think of the Reaper chips. He didn’t want to think of what lay ahead when he and Gibbons finally made it to the coordinates logged into the battle mech. Would that be the end? Would that be where he found answers to a life made up of nothing but questions?

He laughed to himself. He doubted he’d ever get any answers. He was as much a vessel as the mech was. He’d come to terms with his purpose a long ways back.

Clay shifted and looked over his shoulder at the Vernacht. Far above him, he heard Gibbons curse, but he ignored the swearing and studied the construction mech. There was more than enough metal there, and parts beyond parts, that Holcomb could have surely built two, if not three mechs out of the Vernacht and created some decent battle mechs.

Yeah, sure, they wouldn’t be on par with Clay’s, but they would have held up against the flesh mech.

Something occurred to Clay.

“Hey, Gibbons?” Clay asked, happy to have a regular com back in his ear instead of that small chunk of flesh Paige had made him wear. “How’d you get rockets for the mech?”

“What? Oh, Barnes had them in one of the side caves,” Gibbons said. “He’d found a downed mech a while back and parted it out. Kept the ammunition separate, which was smart, but let me have it when I came to rescue your ass.”

“Ammo for the belt guns, too?” Clay asked.

“Belt guns too,” Gibbons said. “But that is limited. Very limited. Five minutes’ worth. Maybe. Don’t matter none, since we have topped off power cells. That’ll keep the plasma cannons firing for a long while. Anything comes at us and it’ll regret it.”

That didn’t sit right. Clay grumbled then got up and started pacing.

“Did you use all of the rockets?” Clay asked.

“Hell no,” Gibbons replied. “There are plenty more back in that side cave.”

“Damn,” Clay said. “That ain’t good.”

“You want to tell me why not?” Gibbons asked.

“That’s too many rockets,” Clay said. “How did the old guy come across that much armaments out here in the Midlands? Not to mention the Reaper chips. Where the hell did he find all those Reaper chips?”

“Uh, excuse me, what?” Gibbons asked, nearly choking on the words. “What the hell are you talking about? You didn’t mention Reaper chips! Clay, some old mad man shows you Reaper chips you best be telling me pronto, pal!”

“I know, I know, sorry,” Clay apologized. “But forget that for now, will ya? The issue is where did he get the ammunition and where did he get the Reaper chips.”

“If the guy isn’t totally insane and told you some truth, then he’s had plenty of time all these years to collect that stuff,” Gibbons said.

“But from where?” Clay asked. “You don’t find rockets lying around. Not even during the Bloody Conflict. That stuff gets locked down. And you sure as hell never, I mean never, just find Reaper chips. Not the specialized ones. Ones meant for mech pilots like the kind that started all those centuries ago.”

Gibbons didn’t respond.

“Are you listening to what I am saying?” Clay snapped.

“I’m listening,” Gibbons sighed. “This means we’re going back, doesn’t it?”

“No, it doesn’t mean that at all,” Clay replied, a little too quickly. A couple seconds went by and, “Yes, it means we’re going back. This is too much of a coincidence, Gibbons. I need some answers before we leave this place.”

“I knew it,” Gibbons said, sighing louder and longer. It sounded like a tire slowly going flat. “It’s going to have to be in the morning. We are finishing these repairs first, you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Clay said. “If we are going back, then I’d rather have a fully functional mech under me. One that isn’t filled with dead flesh and yuck.”

“You and me both, pal,” Gibbons said.

Twenty-Eight

They worked long after dark. Clay rigged up some floodlights from across the Vernacht, and he and Gibbons kept at the repairs until neither of them could move their hands. Their fingers were gnarled and cramped and both were dead on their feet, Gibbons considerably more than Clay. But Gibbons had a head start on that state of being.

“We need to keep a watch,” Clay said sleepily as he leaned his back against the wall of the cockpit. He was seated on the floor, too tired to crawl up into the pilot’s seat. “Or set the scanners to let us know if anything comes creeping up in the night.”

“I’ll take first watch,” Gibbons said. “I can keep my eyes open longer than you can.”

“No you can’t,” Clay said. “You told me that your body has two settings: off and on. What’s going to happen is I’ll fall asleep and then your eyes will shut and that will be that.”

“I’ll set the scanners,” Gibbons said.

“You do that,” Clay replied. “Set them loud. I want full klaxons going off if anything of substance gets within two hundred meters of us.”

“Full klaxons?” Gibbons asked. “That’s pretty damn loud, pal.”

“Says the guy that’s had ears for only a couple of days,” Clay replied. “Trust me, if you end up in a dead sleep, which is all your body can do, you need klaxons at full to wake up ready to fight.”

“Who’s coming at us?” Gibbons asked. “Morley is busy putting your girlfriend back together, the folks in charge have to be out of tweener hounds, and we’re fixing the one mech they tried to steal with parts from the other mech they owned. Is there a third party coming to kick our ass we don’t know about?”

“It’s the Midlands,” Clay said.

“Good point,” Gibbons conceded quickly. “Klaxons to full, it is.”

Gibbons walked about the cockpit in that automaton body, looking like a stilted corpse, and switched off all the lights. The space was plunged into pure darkness. There was no sign of a moon in the sky, the ever-present cloud cover thicker than it had been for days. It made the air almost as thick, stifling despite the time of year.

“Might be another storm heading this way,” Gibbons said as he sat down in the pilot’s seat and manipulated the mech’s arms back to its sides so the way from the Vernacht didn’t exist anymore. No point in giving any possible visitors a clear way to get to the cockpit.

“Probably,” Clay said. “Good thing we got most of our work done. Managing repairs in the rain ain’t no fun, trust me.”

“I imagine they ain’t,” Gibbons replied. After a while, he said, “You want the pilot’s seat to sleep in?”

“I’m good,” Clay said and curled up on the floor.

He didn’t bother finding a blanket or wadding his vest up under his head for a pillow. He just tucked his arm under his cheek and took a deep breath, letting the day disappear as he exhaled slowly.

Sleep gave him a dropkick to the head and he was out.

The klaxons gave him a sucker punch to the gut when they went off, followed closely by a soul-shaking rumble of thunder directly overhead. Clay was no longer out, but fully back in.

Clay bolted upright, and Gibbons jumped from the pilot’s seat, staggering across the cockpit to smash headfirst into the hatch. He ricocheted and fell back into the pilot’s seat, his dead eyes so wide, Clay was afraid he’d tear skin.

“Make them stop!” Gibbons screamed, his hands over his ears.

Clay scrambled to the controls and cut the klaxons. The thunder crashed again and Gibbons squeaked, but he pulled his hands away from his ears.

Clay fired up the scanner display and stared at what he saw.

“Move,” he ordered Gibbons.

The storm above them broke wide open and a downpour of fat, violent rain assaulted the mech.

“Why? What’s happening?” Gibbons asked, glancing at the hatch and the quickly raging storm.

“Look,” Clay said and pointed to the scanners.

Gibbons did and his jaw dropped. “That thing is huge? What the hell is it?”

“How the hell should I know?” Clay asked. “It’s big, whatever it is. Bigger than us, bigger than the Vernacht.”

“Hold on,” Gibbons said and squinted at the scanner readings. “Ugh. These eyes are shit. I miss being in the mech’s systems.”

“What do you see?” Clay asked.

“These,” Gibbons said and pointed at the huge blob on the scanners. There were hundreds of tiny dots in front of the blob. Hundreds of them, all arranged in a loose wedge with the point leading the blob. “What do you make of those?”

“No damn idea,” Clay said. “Troops? Is this an army coming at us?”

“Not big enough,” Gibbons said.

“It’s pretty damn big,” Clay replied.

“Not army big,” Gibbons argued. “It’s too dense, also. It’s a structure of some sort. I’d say a mech, but it isn’t moving like a mech.”

“Too big to be a mech,” Clay said.

“You see what’s sitting outside us right now?” Gibbons countered.

“It’s bigger than the Vernacht,” Clay responded. “We’ve established that. Get your dead head in the game, Gibbons. There isn’t a mech known to man that is as big as that thing.”

They watched the blob grow closer.

“We need to move,” Clay said.

“Shit, yes we do,” Gibbons replied.

Clay hopped into the pilot’s seat and started the mech up. It purred perfectly, healthy and happy with its full power cells. Clay checked systems, but not too closely. They didn’t have the time to go over the checklist thoroughly. They needed to get the Vernacht between them and the oncoming blob as fast as possible.

“Hold on,” Clay said as he piloted the battle mech up and over the Vernacht. It was like a toddler climbing his much older brother.

Clamber, scramble, tumble, fall. Then stillness.

“If they have decent scanners, then they may have noticed us,” Gibbons said.

“Yeah, I expect they may have,” Clay replied. “But maybe we got lucky and they didn’t see us against the bulk of the Vernacht.”

“Yeah, because our luck has been so damn great lately,” Gibbons replied.

“You may have a monotone voice, but I am pretty sure I heard sarcasm,” Clay said.

“Good catch,” Gibbons said.

“We wait here until the thing passes then we finish our repairs and get the hell out of the Midlands,” Clay said.

They both remained silent for the time it took the massive whatever it was to move past the Vernacht. The rain kept coming down, and the storm felt like it was intentionally targeting them with its malevolence, Gibbons barely contained his discomfort at every thunderclap.

Once the thing was gone, which took a long, slow while, Clay piloted the mech back around the Vernacht, going the long way instead of the climb and tumble route. He was about to put them back where they’d been, get them set up once again to start salvaging from the Vernacht, but the scanner readings that came up before him made him stop the mech dead in its tracks.

“Gibbons? You see this?” Clay asked.

Gibbons shoved in and studied the scanner readings. “I do. It’s not a mech and those blips aren’t people.”

“Those are tweeners, right?” Clay asked. “How many do you think?”

“Three, maybe four hundred,” Gibbons guessed.

“What are they pulling? It’s like some land ark,” Clay said. “I mean, I haven’t seen anything that big since we left the gulf coast.”

Gibbons gasped.

“What?” Clay asked.

“My slow brain just caught up,” Gibbons said. “I know what this. I’ve seen one before in the Brazilian Empire. It’s a siege engine.”

“A what what?” Clay asked. “And when would you have seen one down south?”

“I wasn’t always with you, pal,” Gibbons said. “Remember? I had to come from somewhere when I saved your ass. I watched one of these mow down a path from Amazonia to a warlord’s fort. It spent twenty-seven days laying siege to that fort before they finally collapsed the walls and the troops hidden inside could storm the place. It weren’t pretty what happened to the warlord and his people once them walls was breached.”

“I imagine not,” Clay said. “But why would a siege engine be moving across the prairie? If those were tweeners pulling it, then it stands to reason that this thing came from Perdition Plains.”

“Stands to reason,” Gibbons agreed.

“Why?” Clay asked.

“Only thing I can guess is that it’s going to see the Barneses,” Gibbons said. “Morley can shut that cavern system down tight, if he wants to. Only thing that can outlast them might be a siege engine.”

Clay didn’t respond.

“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Gibbons continued. “Morley has plenty of provisions. Not like he has to worry about the meat spoiling, right?”

Gibbons chuckled, Clay didn’t.

“Clay? Pal? What are you thinking?” Gibbons asked. “Talk to me here. I’m not liking the brooding.”

“I’m not brooding,” Clay said. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking about the last repairs we need to make, right?” Gibbons asked. “That’s what you’re thinking about, yeah? Then which direction we’ll go once we have our mech fully functional. Tell me that’s what you are thinking about.”

“I’m thinking that Barnes is holed up in his lab with Paige,” Clay said. “He won’t hear the siege engine coming. Not with this storm raging overhead.”

“Ah, come on!” Gibbons cried. “You said it yourself that Barnes is whacko! Why the hell would we go back?”

“Paige isn’t whacko,” Clay said. “She saved my bacon when those tweener hounds showed up.”

“Now she’s pieces and parts on a slab,” Gibbons said. “What the hell could we possibly do for her? Barnes can get that cavern locked up and then he just has to wait out the Perdition Plains folks.”

“But if he doesn’t hear them,” Clay said, “then the Perdition Plains folks will get inside there and it’s all over.”

“Still not seeing why that’s our problem,” Gibbons said.

“Reaper chips,” Clay said. “If the Perditions get ahold of Reaper chips, then hell knows what they’ll be able to do.”

“So what if they do?” Gibbons asked. “Seriously. Won’t matter none to us.”

“You want the Perdition family to be able to transfer their consciousnesses to other bodies when theirs finally give out?” Clay asked. “Right now, they have their little neck of the Midlands sewed up. But what if they have eternity ahead of them? How much of this hellscape could they take over? Dealing with NorthAm and the MexiCalis is crappy enough, Gibbons. You want a new player to step up on this continent? That’s what’s going to happen.”

“You are one gloom and doom asshole, you know that, pal?” Gibbons muttered. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit. So what do we do? Go fight the siege engine? How? Our mech ain’t in the best of shape.”

“We have way more skill than any of them,” Clay said. “We could hurt them. Hurt them bad. Maybe just long enough to allow Barnes and Paige to escape. We just make sure we get the Reaper chips instead of the Perditions. Then we destroy them before they can be misused.”

“Too late for that,” Gibbons said. “But, yeah, I see what you’re saying.”

“I think the storm is giving us enough cover,” Clay said. “We can get close to that siege engine to see what it’s made of and how we take it down. We’ll also be close enough to send a secure communication to Barnes. We tell him to get ready to leave as soon as we make it possible. He gets out of there, we get in, destroy the Reaper chips, and then the Perditions have nothing to fight for.”

“Assuming that’s what they are fighting for,” Gibbons said.

“Well, yeah, there is that,” Clay said. “But my gut says I’m right.”

“Oh, well, if your gut says so,” Gibbons sighed.

Twenty-Nine

It didn’t take long for either Clay or Gibbons to realize that their biggest issue wasn’t the siege engine or that their mech wasn’t fully repaired. The biggest issue was the storm that refused to stop. The rain came down in sheets, the thunder and lightning in bone snapping rumbles and violent flashes. They were halfway back to the caverns when the ground began to turn to soup.

“I can’t go any faster than this,” Clay said, settling the battle mech into a slow, loping stride. “It’s taking all of my concentration to get one foot in front of the other. They’d rather get themselves stuck in the mud.”

“Good,” Gibbons said. “Because I need the time to set up the secure com connection. The coms system is one of the components we didn’t repair. It works fine for open communications, but secure and private are not cooperating.”

“Doesn’t have to be perfect,” Clay said. “Just working well enough that we can get our point across to Barnes.”

“Right now, we can’t even do that,” Gibbons said. “But I’ll get it up and ready by the time we reach the caverns.”

“Good,” Clay said. “Because if we don’t then—Holy hell!”

He sent the mech into a side dive and rolled it across the muddy ground for several meters before coming up onto one knee. The battle mech was coated in mud and grass, but the cockpit hatch was clear enough for both Clay and Gibbons to see what was only a few meters ahead of them.

The siege engine was mired in the ever-increasing mud. Its wheels, which had to be a story high each, ten of them per side of the massive rolling structure, were halfway submerged in the wet earth. All around the thing were hundreds of townsfolk, plus a couple hundred tweeners, all trying to use ropes and wedged sheets of metal to get the siege engine out of its predicament.

On top of the massive structure were three turrets facing in their direction. They were the reason Clay had cried out while sending the battle mech into a diving roll.

“Big guns!” Gibbons yelled as flashes of yellow flame lit up the dreary day.

They could hear the artillery shells whistling towards them.

Clay pushed the battle mech back up to its feet and ran as fast as he could to the right to avoid the oncoming attack. The ground protested and fought him the entire way, but he managed to put enough distance between where he was and where he had been that when the shells exploded, the concussive blasts were only a good hard slap to the back, not mech shattering.

The battle mech went for a tumble then came up again on its feet. Clay didn’t miss a step and kept moving. He ignored the treacherous terrain and pushed the mech into an all-out sprint as more fire barked from the top turrets. None of the shells came close as the turrets were too slow in tracking their target.

“I think they are using hand cranks to shift their aim,” Gibbons said, voicing what Clay had just been thinking. “This siege engine may be more medieval than modern.”

“Looks like they have quite a bit of flesh on it too,” Clay said as he kept the battle mech going. “See? They put all their resources into building that thing. I doubt they have the motors and servos needed to run everything. Flesh parts are holding it together, and people are powering the systems. It doesn’t have engines to move it. They need tweeners to do that.”

“That would make things convenient for us,” Gibbons said. “They could end up stuck in that mud for the rest of this storm. If they have no significant motors running anything, then that gives us a window to get to the cavern and get the Barneses out of there.”

“Let’s freaking hope so,” Clay said.

They kept going, switching directions once they were clear of the turrets’ range, and headed for the Barneses’ cavern. It took a lot longer than they would have liked since the ground wasn’t being too cooperative. The battle mech wasn’t anywhere near the size of the siege engine, but it was still a heavy machine that wanted to sink into the mud with every step.

Finally, they reached the cavern. Gibbons tried to hail Barnes over and over, but there was no response over the com.

“The mouth is wide open,” Clay said. “The old man has no idea what is heading their way. We need to go inside.”

“Do we?” Gibbons asked.

“We do to get the Reaper chips at the very least,” Clay said.

“Dammit,” Gibbons replied. “Fine. Take us in.”

Clay piloted the battle mech inside. He navigated the huge passageways until he was in the main cavern, familiar scaffolding still standing tall.

“I’m going to go look for the guy,” Clay said. “Stay here and keep the mech powered up. We may need to leave fast.”

“Roger that, pal,” Gibbons said, taking the pilot’s seat as Clay vacated it and opened the cockpit hatch.

Clay climbed down to the cavern floor, paused, and listened. He thought he heard someone crying, but he couldn’t be sure. He found the passageway to Morley’s laboratory and followed that until he came to the first room with all of the vats and the workbench.

Clay quickly found the drawer of Reaper chips and dumped them out onto the surface of the workbench. He grabbed up a mallet that hung from a rack of tools on the wall, lifted the mallet, and prepared to bring it down onto the Reaper chips. But he hesitated.

The sight of all of those chips, all that long-forgotten technology, gave him pause. He could destroy them, ensuring that no one like Barnes or the Perditions could use them for their own greedy ends. But something like nostalgia, or ancestral pride, welled in Clay’s heart, and he couldn’t bring himself to smash the mallet down.

Then he looked closer and realization hit him.

“Dammit,” he muttered as he set the mallet aside and scouted around for something to put the chips in.

He found a pouch made of bison hide and scooped the chips into it, pulling the leather draw strings tight before tucking the pouch into his pocket. He turned to leave, stopped, took the pouch out, set it on the workbench, reached for the mallet once again, paused, pulled his hand back, grabbed up the pouch, and started for the laboratory’s entrance.

Clay repeated that process four times before cursing himself and committing to keeping the pouch and getting the hell out of the room.

He reached the fork in the passage and headed towards the main cavern then stopped.

“Make up your damn mind,” he scolded himself as he turned around.

Instead of going to the laboratory he’d just come from, Clay crept slowly to the second room. The room where Paige would be laid on a slab with most of her body gone and her replacement parts, or components as Morley called them, being kept alive and viable by a thousand wires and electrodes.

Clay was ready to start yelling and shouting at Morley when he entered the room, but the old man wasn’t there. Neither was Paige’s dismembered body.

“What the hell?” Clay asked as he looked at the destruction that had befallen the room.

The tank that had held the severed head in suspension was empty, but intact. It was the only thing that was intact. All the vats that had held body parts were shattered or overturned. Bloody liquid pooled everywhere. The stench was overwhelming. Clay covered his nose and mouth with the crook of his elbow as he struggled to figure out what had happened.

It took him a while, longer than he knew he had, but he finally spotted drops of blood that he figured came from the old man, not from Paige’s parts and pieces body. The drops told a story and it was a violent one. Clay shook his head, took one last look at the room, then decided to get the hell out of there.

“What’s going on?” Gibbons asked as Clay finally climbed back into the cockpit. “Where are the Barneses?”

“I don’t know,” Clay said. “I couldn’t find them.”

“Are we leaving?” Gibbons asked. “Did you destroy the Reaper chips?”

“Yes,” Clay said.

Gibbons eyed him. “Clay? Are you lying to me?”

“No,” Clay said. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“What about the—?” Gibbons began, but was cut off as a pained wail echoed through the cavern. “What the hell was that?”

“I think that was Barnes,” Clay said. “Come on, we’re going.”

“You want to tell me what you found?” Gibbons asked. “What is going on?”

“I think Paige may have protested her new body,” Clay said. “Might have hurt Barnes a little.”

There was another wail of anguish.

“That doesn’t sound like a wounded hurt,” Gibbons said. “I may not be human, but I know grief when I hear it.”

Clay started to argue then nodded.

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Clay said. “But we’re still leaving. These people made their own beds, they can sleep in them. We have got to go before the Perdition Plains folks get their siege engine unstuck and start rolling this way again.”

“Now that’s a plan,” Gibbons said.

Clay turned the battle mech around and headed for the cavern entrance.

When they reached it, Clay brought them to a full stop.

“Son of a bitch,” he growled at the sight before them. “Gibbons? You said we are armed, right?”

“Yeah,” Gibbons said. “We have plenty of power for plasma cannons and a full load of rockets. But we’re low on belt gun ammo.”

“Plasma and rockets should work,” Clay said. “Right?”

“I count one hundred riders,” Gibbons said. “I guess it depends on whether they are armed or not.”

Outside the cave sat a hundred riders astride tweener bison. There were clumped into a large group, but quickly started to spread out. At the head of the group sat a man. With a green and brown hat. A very familiar hat.

“What the hell?” Clay snapped. “Is that Holcomb? And is that son of a bitch wearing my hat?”

“I don’t think that’s what we need to worry about, Clay,” Gibbons said as all of the riders pulled rifles from the sides of their tweeners. “That is.”

“That’s my damn hat!” Clay shouted.

“Forget the hat, Clay!” Gibbons shouted. “We need to get running!”

“We need to get my hat!” Clay yelled and sent the battle mech right into the crowd of tweeners and their armed riders.

“CLAY!” Gibbons yelled as the world erupted with gunfire.

Thirty

Bullets pinged and ricocheted off the battle mech’s hull. Armored plating became dented and dinged in a matter of seconds. Klaxons rang out, warnings blared, a litany of curses streamed from Gibbons’ mouth as Clay thrust the mech into the fight without much thought other than he wanted his damn hat back.

It had sentimental value.

“We just lost the right outside strut supporting the knee,” Gibbons called out as he strapped himself into the jumpseat. “You hear that, pal? We’re already weak on the right leg!”

“I hear it,” Clay growled in a voice that was barely audible yet could be heard perfectly clear even with the gunfire everywhere. “Don’t matter. We squash some tweeners and get my hat. That’s what matters.”

Clay focused squarely on the one rider that stood out from the others. Holcomb must have seen what Clay intended, and he took evasive action as a huge metal foot came down right where the man and his tweener had been.

“That’s how you’re going to get your hat?” Gibbons barked. “By stomping on it?”

“I can fetch it out of the mud,” Clay replied. “If I shoot him, then I could destroy it. I don’t want to do that.”

“How about you shoot the others, though?” Gibbons suggested as more warnings blared in the cockpit. “While we can still shoot? Forget Holcomb for a second and kill some riflemen, will ya!”

A hundred more pings and ricochets managed to grab Clay’s attention. The warnings continued, but Clay silenced them. He knew he’d screwed up, gotten emotional, let sentimentality put their lives at risk. But there was no going back, so he had to go forward.

And going forward meant all guns blazing and rockets firing.

“Tag Holcomb in the targeting system,” Clay said.

“Clay, I’m not an AI in the mech,” Gibbons said. “I’m just a meat bag strapped into the jumpseat. You have to tag him in the targeting system yourself.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Clay snapped as he entered in the command and the tweener that Holcomb rode turned a different color than the rest on the targeting system’s display. “I really need to get you back in this mech.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying since day freaking one!” Gibbons shouted. “Pay attention!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Clay said as he opened fire with the belt guns, ripping a dozen tweeners and riders to shreds.

Blood, flesh, metal, and clothing went everywhere, swept across the wet ground by the storm’s whipping wind. Clay turned and fired into a second group, but the belt guns whirred empty before he could decimate that set of riders. They saw that as an opportunity and all took aim with their rifles.

“What? Did they forget about the plasma cannons?” Clay asked as he took aim. “Amateurs.”

Clay killed another dozen riders, their bodies fried and atomized by the power of the direct plasma blasts. The riders never saw their deaths coming.

But the rest did, and they quickly moved to avoid the battle mech’s cannons. Clay fired a rocket at a group of riders, but they steered their tweeners away in time and all that Clay got for his effort was an explosion of mud and a smoking crater.

“Left ankle servo is fried,” Gibbons called out. “Hear it grinding?”

“I hear it grinding,” Clay said. He did. It was impossible to ignore.

The battle mech’s agility was hampered fast. No quick turns or well-timed pivots were possible on that side. Clay had to overcompensate by spinning all the way around from the other side to avoid the barrage of rifle fire that came at the mech. It was a disorienting move and he would have been a dizzy mess if he wasn’t such a seasoned pilot.

Even still, his stomach lurched as he had to continue the move to keep the mech from getting its other side blasted into uselessness.

“Now I know how a bear feels when he sticks his nose in a beehive,” Clay said as the bullets kept coming. “These rifles are annoying as hell.”

“Yeah, but they are doing a good job,” Gibbons said. “We just lost long-range scanners. We won’t know if that siege engine gets free and heads this way until it’s too late.”

“We won’t be here long enough to find out,” Clay said. “I’m pointing us at the horizon and getting us out of the Midlands.”

“What about your hat?” Gibbons asked.

“I don’t want to think about it,” Clay said.

“If you say so,” Gibbons replied.

Clay aimed the mech for the horizon and prepared to get them the hell out of there. But Holcomb had other ideas.

The man brought a line of riders to stand directly in front of the mech, their rifles firing over and over and over. Clay cringed as bullets assaulted the cockpit hatch. In seconds, cracks began to appear, making visibility very difficult. One of the hatch’s panels finally shattered and bullets ricocheted about the cockpit.

“Son of a bitch!” Clay yelled as he turned the mech around, putting the machine’s back between him and Holcomb’s firing squad.

“Take us back in,” Gibbons said. “Take us back in the cavern and we’ll regroup from there.”

“You have got to be kidding,” Clay responded. “We’ll flank the riders and—”

The loudest klaxon yet filled the cockpit. Along with a good deal of smoke.

“Clay!” Gibbons shouted.

“Right, right, I know,” Clay said, sounding completely defeated. “We go back in.”

“Once we’re inside, I’ll take over,” Gibbons said. “I saw how the cavern closes up. We’ll need the mech to close the blast doors, they’re that big, but I can do it.”

“What am I going to do?” Clay asked.

“Sit in the jumpseat like a bitch,” Gibbons said. “Just like I am now.”

“Ha ha,” Clay said as he limped the battle mech inside the cavern entrance.

The rifle fire never stopped as Clay spun the mech around. He sent the last of the rockets firing out into the riders and held the trigger on the plasma cannons until they shut down before overheating.

Gibbons smacked Clay on the shoulder, and they switched places. Clay had barely strapped into the jumpseat before Gibbons was reaching into a recessed pocket on one side of the cavern entrance and pulling out a massive blast door. The thing was made up of hundreds of riveted panels and looked as solid as anything Clay had ever seen.

Gibbons pulled it until it stopped halfway across the entrance then repeated the motion with a hidden blast door on the other side. A half a dozen riders made it into the cavern before Gibbons could get it locked down and they circled the mech, firing up at the cockpit until their rifles clicked empty.

“Morons,” Gibbons said as he brought up a foot and sent it down over and over until nothing was left except rider and tweener pulp.

Smoke was filling the cockpit, and Clay undid his straps so he could go open the hatch and let more air in and the smoke out.

“Take us to the main cavern,” Clay said to Gibbons as he leaned out over the cockpit hatch’s edge and breathed deeply. “We’ll do what repairs we can then assess the situation.”

“I think we already know the answer to that assessment,” Gibbons said. “But, yeah, we’ll fix what we can then deal with reality.”

“You make it sound like I’m not dealing with reality,” Clay said.

“You sent us into one hundred armed riders over a hat, Clay,” Gibbons responded. “Do you really want to argue reality?”

“Shut up,” Clay said as he gripped the hatch edge with both hands in order to keep from tumbling out.

The mech wasn’t exactly gliding along with smooth steps. It was limping and listing to one side, and Gibbons struggled to keep it from falling over as strut after strut started to bend and give out. They barely made it into the main cavern before several servos seized up and the mech froze in place.

“You check systems while I get the scaffolding in place,” Clay said as he climbed out of the cockpit and made his way down to the ground. “How are we on power?”

“Power isn’t the problem for once,” Gibbons called down from above. “Everything else is!”

“Great,” Clay muttered as he started wheeling the huge scaffolding up against the mech.

He locked down the wheels and repeated the same motions with the rest until the mech was surrounded and they had platforms on all sides and levels to work from.

“Where are we starting?” Clay asked.

“You name it,” Gibbons called. “I’m still running a damage report. This ain’t good, pal.”

“I figured,” Clay replied.

That pained wail echoed from one of the passages and Clay sighed.

“How long will the report take?” Clay asked.

“Hell if I know,” Gibbons said. “We’re looking at damage to systems, subsystems, subsubsystems. I might be able to reroute some so that all we need are mechanical fixes, but that’s pretty optimistic.”

The wail continued.

“While you do that, I’m going to see what the hell is up with the ghost in the cavern,” Clay said. “Give a yell when you’re ready to start work.”

“Oh, I’ll be yelling,” Gibbons said. “Don’t you worry.”

Clay left the scaffolding-surrounded mech and crossed the cavern to the passageway where the wail was coming from.

“Barnes? That you in there?” Clay called out. He waited, but no answer. “Barnes?”

The wail stopped.

Clay peered into the passageway, but it was pitch black after only a couple meters.

“Dammit,” Clay muttered as he went back out into the main cavern to find a flashlight.

When he’d fetched a halogen torch, he returned to the passageway, cocked his head to listen to any clue of what he might find, then shrugged and entered.

It took him a good five minutes to make his way to the end of the passageway. When he was finally at the end, he switched off the halogen and went to set it on a cart to his left. He missed and it clattered to the ground, but Clay didn’t pay any attention. He was too occupied staring at what the unfamiliar cavern held.

Flesh mechs. A dozen flesh mechs all easily the size of the one that had been left to rot out in the prairie.

And sitting at the feet of them was Morley, the dismembered corpse of Paige cradled in his arms. But it wasn’t Paige’s head on the corpse, it was the head that Clay had seen in the tank. Ginger-haired and white-skinned.

“Barnes?” Clay whispered.

The old man looked up and sniffed back a line of snot that streamed from his nostril.

“It didn’t take,” he moaned as he rocked the body back and forth in his arms. “It didn’t take!”

“What didn’t take?” Clay asked as he slowly approached Morley.

“The transfer,” Morley replied. “I couldn’t get my Paige’s consciousness to transfer to the new head. The chip must have been bad.”

“Paige’s chip went bad?” Clay asked.

“No, you fool!” Morley snapped. “The chip in this head!” Morley smacked the top of the ginger-haired skull. “It became corrupt or the brain wasn’t compatible. It happens. It’s happened before, but we always had backups. I didn’t have any backups this time. There were no other heads I could use.”

“Oh…damn,” Clay said. He crouched in front of Morley. “I’m sorry, Barnes. I’m sorry she’s gone.”

“Gone?” Morley asked and blinked back tears “Paige is not gone. I said I didn’t have any more heads to use, I didn’t say I couldn’t transfer her somewhere else.”

Clay stood and took a couple of steps back. He had a suspicion he knew what Morley meant.

“Barnes? What did you do?” Clay asked as he looked from one flesh mech to the next then to the next, his eyes searching them all for signs of what he feared had happened. “Barnes, please tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.”

“I did it,” Morley said. “It was the only way.”

One of the flesh mechs shifted, turning until it faced Clay head on. He saw the mismatched arms. It was the Prometheus.

“Paige?” Clay asked.

The flesh mech wailed, and Clay clamped his hands over his ears.

Thirty-One

“Okay, this is bad,” Clay said as he backed away from the flesh mech that was Paige Barnes. “Barnes! How do we fix this?”

“We can’t!” Morley yelled. “This isn’t full integration! This is total, complete, permanent integration!”

“Are you freaking joking?” Clay shouted. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I could save my daughter from oblivion!” Morley yelled.

“How did that work out for you?” Clay responded.

“She needs help!” Morley said. “She needs someone to guide her through her transition!”

“Don’t look at me!” Clay shouted.

The wail was becoming more than painful.

“What the holy hell is going on in here?” Gibbons asked as he hurried into the flesh mech cavern. “Whoa…”

He stopped and stared at the organic battle machines, his dead eyes taking it all on. Then he turned his attention on the wailing flesh mech and cocked his head.

“Sweet nuts and bolts,” he said. “Is that Paige? Is Paige in there?” He looked at the corpse in Morley’s clutches then back up at the wailing flesh mech. “Oh, for the love of belt guns, please tell me what has happened hasn’t actually happened.”

“It happened,” Clay said. “Can you make it stop?”

“Me?” Gibbons asked, looking as stunned as his dead features would allow. “Oh, right…me.”

He held out his hands and approached the wailing flesh mech.

“Paige? Hey there,” he said softly. “I’m going to come aboard and help you get through this.”

“Please, she is in so much pain,” Morley said.

“You shut your dead trap, old man,” Gibbons snarled as he walked by Morley. “You have no idea what you’ve done to your daughter. No idea. Trust me.”

Gibbons approached the flesh mech and the cockpit hatch above opened like a mouth, the wail increasing in volume, in intensity, nothing but total and complete agony. Clay was brought to his knees by it, his head ready to explode.

“Gibbons!” Clay shouted.

“Go work on our mech!” Gibbons shouted back as he reached the flesh mech’s leg. “Get out! This is only going to get worse!”

Clay didn’t argue. He staggered to his feet and stumbled his way out of the flesh mech cavern, down the passageway, and into the main cavern where the battle mech waited for much-needed repairs.

With the wailing behind him, yet far from silent, Clay managed to pull his hands from his ears and take a deep breath. He studied his mech and almost collapsed to his knees again at the sight of all the damage. He’d need hours to get it fixed up.

And from the sound of the gunfire still pinging against the blast doors of the cavern entrance, Holcomb and his riders weren’t going to give him hours. He knew it was only a matter of time before they tried to test the blast aspect of the blast doors and blow them inward with whatever explosives they had. Clay wasn’t under any illusions that they didn’t have explosives. You didn’t build a set of locks like they had without blowing some holes in the ground.

He had to prioritize. Which wasn’t easy to do since it required concentration. And concentration was in short supply as Paige’s wail filled every nook and cranny of the Barneses’ cavern system.

“Ignore the insane flesh mech woman and bust some ass,” Clay said to himself.

Struts. He looked at the struts that were warped and broken. All were around the knee joints, and he knew the mech wasn’t going to be able to do jack squat if he didn’t repair those. But he didn’t have the parts to do it. Despite Barnes’s insinuations, Clay wasn’t a master mechanic that had control over the outlawed metal alloy that made up much of the battle mech’s structure.

He’d have to do it the old fashioned way: scavenge.

Clay spent over an hour finding and moving every last hunk of metal in the cavern system over to his repair staging area. He stood there, panting and sweating, after dropping the last load from the rickety wheelbarrow he’d found.

Iron, steel, rusted something, more iron, even what he feared was poly painted to look like steel. If it was poly, then he’d have to be very careful. That stuff got in your bloodstream and wreaked havoc with a person’s circulation. One day happy and breathing, the next day dead from a brain aneurysm.

Clay got to work.

He concentrated on the struts, banging and hammering what he could save into a semblance of their actual forms. Then he set about welding in the pieces of metal he thought would work best. Having the scaffolding helped like hell. A good hell. It wasn’t like being out on the open range and trying to strap in with ropes and a harness. All he had to do was walk over to the place that needed repairing and do the work.

It took him another hour to get the struts around the knees looking like they wouldn’t collapse under a brisk jog. A third hour was spent hammering armor plating back into place and patching the approximately five thousand bullet holes that peppered the mech’s surface. That wasn’t so hard, merely a systematic, time-consuming job of going over each and every hole.

The last job he absolutely had to do was fix the burned-out servo in the battle mech’s ankle. The knee struts were barely up to par; without that servo working, one of the battle mech’s legs would be a stiff hunk of metal that dragged on mobility. He needed mobility if he was going to get him and Gibbons out of the cavern and running across the plains.

Which was the plan. He had no intention of fighting Holcomb and his tweener riders. They’d already showed they could put a serious hurt on his battle mech. He had no desire to go through that again. Clay wasn’t sure if he was going to make a deal or just blast his way through and run like a bat out of Hell. He was sure that a fight wasn’t gonna happen.

No sir, no way.

He was about to climb up into the cockpit and fire the mech up to see if his repairs held, but he stopped as he noticed something.

Silence.

That was either good or bad. Didn’t matter too much to Clay, it was the Barneses’ problem to deal with.

Clay got the mech started and smiled at the sound of the power cells. He was really in awe at how well they hummed. If Barnes had done one thing for them, it was to yank out the bison brains Holcomb had installed as alternators and get the power cells in tip top shape. For that, he was grateful. Still didn’t offset the other insanity, but it was a check mark in the plus column.

“Get me in there,” Gibbons said as he slowly walked his automaton ass out of the passageway and over to the mech. “I mean in there, in there. No more meat bag, Clay. Get me back in my matrix now.”

Clay set the battle mech to idle, turning off main systems and keeping all ancillary systems, such as the AI matrix drives, at full power. He leaned over the edge of the cockpit and smiled down at Gibbons.

“Ready to get the hell away from this nightmare?” Clay asked and shook his head. “Screw the Midlands, buddy. We’ve got other things to do.”

“We ain’t leaving yet, pal,” Gibbons said. “We got a fight to win.”

Clay blinked a few times then his shoulders sagged.

“Oh, come on, Gibbons,” he said. “You can’t be serious. This isn’t our fight.”

“Clay, I just had to merge with a dead woman’s mind in order to get her to integrate with a flesh mech’s systems without going totally insane,” Gibbons said as he stopped at the base of the scaffolding and looked up at Clay. “I’ve seen things, man. I have seen very awful, horrible things.”

“We both have, Gibbons,” Clay said as Gibbons started to climb up. He was slow and slightly shaky. “You need a hand there?”

“Get me in the mech,” Gibbons insisted when he was almost to the cockpit. “Get those drives ready and hook up the cables.”

The cables. Clay looked behind him at the intestines that were still stinking up the cockpit.

“Great,” he said and got to work hooking them into the AI matrix drive ports.

Gibbons climbed into the cockpit and sighed.

“Clay, I don’t think the Barneses know who they are,” Gibbons said. “Morley has been transferring them from body to body for so long that he’s forgotten most of what he knew. He’s invented his own history, pal. He’s created a story of who he and Paige are, but he doesn’t really know. I think I know. We ain’t gonna abandon them. We’ll fight off the Perdition Plains folks and give the Barneses a fighting chance.”

“Why?” Clay asked as he held the ends of the intestine cables in his hands, his stomach lurching at the smell and feel. “It don’t matter who they are, buddy. We have some place we need to go. We have a mission.”

“A mission given to us by secret coordinates in a battle mech,” Gibbons said. “Even I don’t know the full extent of what they mean or what we will find there. But I think I know a place that might have some answers. And now I have those coordinates.”

“What? Where?” Clay asked as Gibbons took the intestine cables, opened the coverall he was wearing, and jammed the ends into a couple of not-so-healthy-looking ports in the automaton’s dead body.

“I’ll tell you once we kick some Perdition ass,” Gibbons said. “Not bef—”

He stopped talking and went completely rigid as his dead eyes rolled up into his head.

Clay caught him before he could fall, but it was obvious that the automaton body was not Gibbons any longer. It was a stiff hunk of dead meat.

“Toss it out,” Gibbons’ voice said from the cockpit speakers. “Let’s get to work. This ain’t gonna be easy, pal.”

“Never is, man,” Clay replied as he hefted the automaton to the edge of the cockpit and threw it out into the main cavern.

It hit every part of the scaffolding on the way down, and Clay had to turn away as it came apart like a flesh piñata. Clay sat down in the pilot’s seat and strapped in as he brought the battle mech up to full power. A couple systems complained, but he shut off the warning buzzers and concentrated on mobility and weapons.

“Nice patch job,” Gibbons said.

“Thanks,” Clay replied. “And, by the way, you have no idea how good it is to hear your real voice. Zombie Gibbons I can do without hearing for the rest of my life.”

“You and me both, pal,” Gibbons said.

Clay shoved and kicked the scaffolding out of the way then turned back towards the main entrance.

“How do you expect us to hold up against the riders?” Clay asked. “They’re just gonna start shooting again.”

“We’ll have some help,” Gibbons said. “Just get us outside and you’ll see.”

Clay’s blood ran cold.

“You don’t mean…do you?” Clay asked.

“I do,” Gibbons said.

“Sweet bloody hell,” Clay said. “Is she up for it?”

“No,” Gibbons said. “Neither is the old man. They built flesh mechs because they had to build mechs. The people they used to be had that in them so strong that that’s what has stayed with them for all these centuries.”

“Whoa,” Clay said. ‘Centuries?”

“Later,” Gibbons said as the battle mech reached the blast doors. “Now, we fight.”

“You do know I’m the pilot, right?” Clay asked as he double checked that the plasma cannons were powered up and ready to fire the second he needed them. He grabbed the right blast door and prepared to shove it into its recess in the cavern entrance wall. “Gibbons? You know I’m the pilot, right?”

“You keep thinking whatever you need to, pal,” Gibbons said, his voice sharp and cold. “If that’s what you need to get you through this fight.”

Clay sighed and shoved. The blast door flew into the side of the cavern, and all hell broke loose.

Thirty-Two

The riders were ready for them.

They opened fire the second Clay stepped the battle mech outside the cavern.

But he was ready for them too and ripped into their ranks with an onslaught of plasma bolts. The energy blasts tore apart rider and tweener alike. They were sliced in half, incinerated, turned into smoldering piles of flesh and burning bone. Heads exploded from heat, torsos burst into flame, limbs went flying.

Yet the riders didn’t retreat, they kept up the attack and their rifles barked bullets again and again, undoing much of the hard work Clay had spent hours repairing.

“Is that backup coming or what?” Clay shouted as he dove over a regiment of riders that had tried to flank them on the right. The battle mech wasn’t graceful, but it managed the dive and the roll, coming up in a crouch where Clay could grab up half a dozen riders in the battle mech’s fists and slam them together into a tweener soup. “Gibbons?”

“I heard you, pal,” Gibbons said. “Yes, the backup is coming. Just be patient.”

“Patient?” Clay snapped. “We’re not going to last long out here, buddy!”

“We’ll last just fine,” Gibbons said. “Relax.”

“Relax? Oh, you are so going to get your memory wiped when this is all done,” Clay said.

“Oh, you are so going to get your memory wiped when this is all done,” Gibbons mocked in a sing-song voice.

“I take it back,” Clay said as he smashed two riders into the wet earth with a pile driver of a punch. “I prefer the monotone Gibbons better.”

The storm had pretty much passed. Flashes of lightning now and again lit up the landscape in sharp relief, but the thunder was kilometers off and the rain had slacked to an annoying drizzle. It didn’t mean the ground was any more maneuverable. It was still a muddy mess, and Clay fought to keep the battle mech from succumbing to the mucky suction underfoot.

A familiar sight caught Clay’s eye, and he instantly had the targeting system lock on. He wasn’t going to fire, but he wanted the target tracked. No way was he going to lose it.

“The hat, again?” Gibbons sighed. “Man, you are obsessed.”

“Shut up,” Clay said. “I’m targeting Holcomb.”

“If that was true, you would have fired on him already,” Gibbons said. “Left side!”

Clay spun the mech about and sent six blasts from the plasma cannons down at the riders that were trying to flank him there. They were torn to shreds and hunks of rider parts flew into the air. The smoking body parts sizzled in the wet earth where they finally landed.

“Forget the hat,” Gibbons said. “Concentrate on the fight.”

“I am,” Clay said. “I can do both. I want my hat.”

“Yeah, I know,” Gibbons said. “You haven’t exactly been hiding that.”

The scanners barked a warning, and Clay frowned at the readings.

“I thought that was a thunderhead on the horizon,” Clay said. “That’s not a thunderhead on the horizon.”

“They got the siege engine moving again,” Gibbons said. “I don’t know how, but they did.”

As the mighty machine grew closer, the scanners were able to pick up more detail. Both Clay and Gibbons saw how they got the siege engine moving again. They didn’t have time to react right away, though. Holcomb made his move, tearing their attention from the impossible sight.

It was a classic wedge formation. All of the tweeners and riders moved into position and attacked, heading straight for the mech’s legs. It was a simple, brilliant move, utilizing the superior numbers to take down an oversized foe.

Except Holcomb was thinking like an engineer, Clay saw that right away. He was thinking along the lines of basic physics and gravity, force meeting force. Clay was thinking like a fighter. He saw the solution before the attack had moved ahead two meters.

The plasma cannons dug a deep, wide trench directly in front of the wedge, and Holcomb never stood a chance. If the ground had been hardpan, then the tactic wouldn’t have worked, but it wasn’t hardpan, it was soft and wet.

When plasma energy hit soft and wet, it cut deep and created a massive amount of steam.

The wedge was blind until it was too late.

Tweener and rider after tweener and rider fell into the deep trench the battle mech had cut, piling on top of each other until the entire wedge was stuck. Almost the entire wedge. A dozen or so riders realized what was happening and reversed course, turning to meet the siege engine.

“Nice move,” Gibbons said.

“Yeah, but my hat is at the bottom of that pile,” Clay said.

“Oh, come on!” Gibbons snapped. “Forget the hat!”

Clay let it drop and focused on the approaching siege engine instead. Or tried to. Some of the riders had managed to survive and were climbing out of the trench, their rifles up and firing. Clay roasted them with a wide, arcing blast of plasma. If there were any riders still alive in the tweener pileup, they quickly figured out that keeping a low profile and playing possum was the best strategy for survival.

“Look at that,” Clay said as he once again could focus his attention on the siege engine rolling towards them. “These Perdition Plains people have some ingenuity in them, I’ll give them that. Too bad they use it to do the bidding of some living corpses like the folks in charge. If they’d just kick those decrepit assholes to the dirt, they might actually build a life for themselves.”

“I agree,” Gibbons said. “Too bad we have to take those lives from them.”

“Maybe not,” Clay said. “Open a channel.”

“It’s open,” Gibbons said. “But you’re wasting your breath. These are fanatics, Clay. Their brains are so warped by the folks in charge, not to mention their very nature as lazaroti, that they won’t listen to reason.”

“I ain’t gonna give them reason,” Clay said. “I’m gonna give them an option. Or one of them, at least. That person, ghoul, whatever, can choose it or not.”

The siege engine rolled closer. Clay watched as it moved along the bodies of the tweeners that were meant to pull it. It was a crude version of log roll locomotion, but it worked. The truly amazing part was that the tweeners could handle the load of the siege engine, get up, run to the front of the massive machine, lie down, and prepare to get almost crushed all over again. Clay really wanted to know the engineering behind those things. It was brilliant.

“Hello, siege engine driver, or pilot, or whatever you are,” Clay called over the com. “This is Clay MacAulay, and I’d like to strike a deal with you.”

There was no answer.

“Listen, whoever you are,” Clay continued, “I have something you might be interested in. Just for you. Stop that machine dead, power it down, destroy the controls, and I’ll give you something I know you want.”

Clay pulled the pouch of Reaper chips from his pocket and shook them.

“They can’t see that,” Gibbons said. “And, wait, what are you thinking?”

“Hush,” Clay said. “Listen, pilot person guy or gal, I have a Reaper chip. It can be yours. Know what that means? Your masters know what that means. It means immortality. You won’t have to stay in that dead body if you don’t want to. You can move your consciousness from form to form just like the Barneses do.”

“Clay, that’s not how it works,” Gibbons said. “I was trying to tell you that.”

“No, you said we’d talk about it after we won the fight,” Clay said. “Doesn’t matter, I’m not giving any one of them a modified Reaper chip. Not a chance in Hell. But I know the message will be heard and passed on to Perdition Plains. Those old crusty sons of bitches will be hearing this and we’ll have an answer soon.”

The siege engine continued to roll towards them, never slowing, never showing that anyone inside had received Clay’s communication.

“But, just in case this doesn’t work,” Clay said. “When exactly is that backup getting here?”

“Any second now,” Gibbons said. “The machine needs to be a little closer, is all.”

“I would rather it wasn’t a little closer,” Clay said.

The sides of the siege machine were dotted with holes. Clay saw them for what they were: rifle slots. There had to be close to five hundred slots. One by one, a dozen by a dozen, the slots were filled with the barrels of rifles of various sizes. The Perditions had put their all into the attack, Clay would give them that.

“Mr. MacAulay,” a reedy voice rasped over the com. “I have been told you are in possession of a Reaper chip.”

“I’m assuming I’m speaking to Thaddeus Perdition,” Clay replied.

“You assume correctly,” Thaddeus replied. “While I do not appreciate your attempted bribery of one of mine, I do applaud your courage. To think you thought you had a chance to survive this. You would have been better served if you’d stayed hidden behind the Vernacht and let all of this play out on its own.”

“I doubt it would have played out the way you wanted it to,” Clay said.

“One Reaper chip does not interest us, Mr. MacAulay,” Thaddeus replied. “I am in need of all of them.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that,” Clay said. “Good thing I have all of them.”

“Clay? What the hell are you doing?” Gibbons hissed. “You cannot give these people the Reaper chips. Do you know what will happen if the Perditions become immortal? They’ll rule the Midlands forever and this place will always be a—”

“Hush now, Gibbons old buddy, old pal,” Clay said. “Trust me.”

Before he could say any-more, there was motion from behind the battle mech. Every warning klaxon in the cockpit went off and Clay had to scramble to shut them down before his ears started to bleed.

“Gibbons! Call her off!” Clay yelled. “Stop her!”

The flesh mech sprinted from the cavern, directly at the siege engine, its cockpit open, the former wail of pain now a full-throated battle cry. Which confused the hell out of Clay since he wasn’t sure where the flesh mech even had a throat to make a cry like that.

The flesh mech closed the distance and leaped at the siege engine all in the blink of an eye. It was like a pinkish gorilla clambering around a box. A box with rifles that started to fire. But that didn’t stop the flesh mech. It waged war with simian fury and slammed its fleshy fists against the rifle slots, crushing weapon after weapon.

“What is that?” Thaddeus cried. “What abomination have you wrought upon our land?”

“Yeah, not me, Teddy,” Clay said. “That’s Barnes’s doing. I’ll get the mech to stop its attack if we can come to an agreement.”

“I don’t think you can get her to stop,” Gibbons said. “She isn’t exactly the most reasonable mind any longer.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Clay said. “I just need something to bargain with. I have an idea, and if it works, we won’t have to worry about the Perditions, or flesh mechs any longer.”

“Mr. MacAulay!” Thaddeus shouted. “Stop that thing! Now!”

“If you promise to give me time to repair my mech fully and give us safe passage from here,” Clay said. “I’ll stop the mech and give you the Reaper chips.”

“I do not make deals when the other party is in an obvious place of weakness!” Thaddeus growled.

“A place of weakness!” a woman’s voice chimed in.

“Weakness!” another said.

“Oh, we have the whole family on the line,” Clay said. “How nice. This is good because I’m not done yet. Not only do you promise us safe passage, but you give up fighting the Barneses. They stay safe as well. In return, I will make sure Morley Barnes uses his skills to implant the Reaper chips properly into the people of your choosing. There are a limited supply, but I have a feeling you know already who you’d like to take with you into immortality.”

“We would have liked Holcomb to come with us,” one of the sisters said.

“Yeah, well, sorry about that,” Clay said. “Maybe you should think first before attacking a skilled mech and its pilot.”

“Thanks for calling me skilled,” Gibbons said.

“I said the mech was skilled, not the AI,” Clay replied.

“Dick,” Gibbons said.

“Love ya too, buddy,” Clay replied. He cleared his throat. “Perditions? What do you say? Call this attack off and we can work together. You get your everlasting life, and I get to leave this crap ass place.”

There was some mumbling over the com. Clay rolled his eyes at the fact the Perditions didn’t mute their talk or use an internal channel to communicate. That was second nature when he and Gibbons spoke. Amateurs.

“We will make the deal,” Thaddeus said after several minutes.

Clay and Gibbons had occupied themselves by watching the flesh mech tear holes in the sides of the siege engine and throw riflemen and riflewomen out onto the soggy ground. Those that stayed still, lived. Those that got up to fire again were met with brutal violence. Clay had heard the term “flesh confetti” used before. That description fit the fools’ fates perfectly.

“Stop that mech from destroying our machine,” Thaddeus ordered. “Do that and bring us the Reaper chips, with Morley Barnes, and we will grant you your wishes.”

“He’s one hell of a creepy genie,” Gibbons said. “Granting wishes. Please.”

“You got yourself a deal, Mr. Perdition,” Clay said.

The flesh mech that housed Paige’s consciousness continued its destruction of the siege engine. Clay watched it for a minute then sighed.

Thirty-Three

“This isn’t going to be easy, is it?” Clay asked.

“Why would you think it would be?” Gibbons said. “The point was for the flesh mech to fight the siege engine, not for it to stop fighting the siege engine.”

“Can we reason with her?” Clay asked.

“What do you think?” Gibbons asked. “Look at her go. I helped her transition into the flesh mech, but at a cost.”

“That cost was her sanity, right?” Clay said.

“It was her humanity,” Gibbons said. “She may regain some semblance of it over time, but right now she is primal. You are looking at raw everything there. In order to give her focus and not just be a machine of violence bent on destroying everything in sight, I had to program a goal in there with her.”

Clay sighed again.

“Destroy the siege engine,” Clay said

“Destroy the siege engine,” Gibbons echoed.

“I’m going to have to stop her without killing her,” Clay said. “Can I do that?”

“Maybe,” Gibbons said.

“I need more than maybe,” Clay said.

“Mr. MacAulay!” Thaddeus shouted over the com. “Control that beast!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it!” Clay yelled back. “Hold your damn horses! Or tweeners! Or whatever! Just calm down!”

“Gibbons? How do we stop her without killing her?” Clay asked. “If we kill Paige, then Barnes won’t help implant the Reaper chips.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” Gibbons said. He sighed in his AI way. “Her consciousness runs throughout the flesh mech’s body. It’s in every cell and fiber. There are no drives for it to be housed in. The whole mech is the drives.”

“But…?” Clay pushed.

“But, if we disable the flesh mech, Paige will instinctively withdraw herself into the intact portion,” Gibbons continued. “In other words, we tear her limbs off and she will retreat to the torso. She’ll survive, but be helpless.”

“Now we have a plan,” Clay said and started the mech walking towards the rampaging flesh mech that continued to wreak havoc on the siege engine. He opened the com back up. “Mr. Perdition, sir, I have a solution. Let me tackle this then we’ll meet back in town and complete our deal.”

“We look forward to that, Mr. MacAulay,” Thaddeus responded and the com went dead.

“How do we switch her focus?” Clay asked.

“That’s easy,” Gibbons said. “Do what you do best. Pick a fight.”

“I don’t do that best,” Clay replied.

“Yet here we are as always,” Gibbons said.  “Just like last time.”

“That last time doesn’t count. We were forced into a tournament, remember?” Clay said.

“Still a fight,” Gibbons said.

“Shut up,” Clay replied.

He got the battle mech as close to the siege engine as he felt comfortable and slammed both hands together. The clapping sound was as loud as the storm’s thunder had been. It got the flesh mech’s attention, but only for a few seconds before the thing went back to work destroying the siege engine.

“Hey!” Clay yelled, the external loudspeakers turned to full volume. “Paige! Knock it off!”

Paige did not knock it off. In fact, the flesh mech doubled its efforts.

“Give me junction points,” Clay said. “This needs to be like surgery, right?”

“Surgery? Yeah, sure, we’ll perform surgery with the plasma cannons,” Gibbons said. “This is going to end well.”

“No, it’s not, but we don’t have a choice,” Clay snapped. “Just show me the damn junction points on the targeting system.”

Crosshairs came up and the targeting system painted the points on the flesh mech Clay needed to hit in order to take it down. A simple plan if the thing wasn’t swinging all over the surface of the siege engine, a never-ending blur of violence and destruction.

“I’m almost rethinking the deal I made,” Clay said. “Paige sure is doing a number on that there machine.” Gibbons began to respond, but Clay cut him off. “There’s more of an endgame than just taking out this siege engine, buddy. You’ll have to trust me on this.”

“If that’s the case, then we need to pay attention to the flesh mech,” Gibbons said. “Forget the deal and what comes after. Focus on the shooting.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Clay said.

He started humming a little tune, matching the rhythm with the swinging flesh mech. Once the tune and the mech synched up, Clay fired the first shot. The left leg split off from the torso at the hip.

There was no mistaking the flesh mech’s reaction as it stopped swinging and spun itself around to face the battle mech. It didn’t have a face, but it roared with rage, and Clay was fairly certain the open cockpit hatch scrunched like a hard glare.

“One down,” Clay said. “Three to go.”

“I would suggest we leave the arms, but I am sure you would counter with how you’d still be able to fight if our mech only had arms,” Gibbons said.

“You know me so well, buddy,” Clay replied. “Hold steady.”

“Holding steady,” Gibbons responded as Clay began to hum again.

The flesh mech scrambled towards the top of the siege engine, looking for higher ground to launch an attack. Clay took out the right leg just as it crested the top.

“That’s some mighty fine shooting there,” Clay congratulated himself. “Mighty fine.”

“Clay,” Gibbons cautioned. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I know, I know,” Clay replied, seeing exactly what the flesh mech was about to do. “Can we time this right?”

“I’ll make sure we do,” Gibbons said. “Wait for my mark.”

“You want to take the shot?” Clay asked.

“I’d prefer not to,” Gibbons said. “This still doesn’t sit well with me. You forget that I was merged with Paige. Watching you shoot her is like watching myself get shot.”

“Now look who has a girlfriend,” Clay chuckled. Gibbons didn’t. “Sorry. I like Paige too. We’re going to save her, don’t worry.”

“You better be right,” Gibbons said.

The flesh mech bunched up both arms under its legless torso. Then it launched into the air, flinging itself from the siege engine right at the battle mech.

“Now!” Gibbons shouted.

Clay fired and the flesh mech’s right arm was severed. Clay fired again and the left arm went the same way. The flesh mech fell several meters short of the battle mech then skidded the rest of the distance, building a small wall of mud and grass around it.

When it finally came to rest at the battle mech’s feet, Clay got out of the pilot’s seat, popped open the cockpit hatch, and quickly climbed down. By that time, Morley had exited the semi-safety of the cavern and was running at what was left of the flesh mech.

“What have you done?” he screeched. “What have you done to her?”

“She’s still in there,” Clay said, holding up both hands.

Morley was on him and throwing a punch faster than Clay thought the old man was capable of.

“Damn,” Clay said, rubbing his jaw as he straightened back up. “You didn’t have to slug me, Barnes. I’ve got a plan.”

“Which includes killing my daughter!” Morley yelled.

“That ain’t your daughter,” Clay said. “Not right now. Maybe after some time and serious therapy, but right now she’s a wild animal. Right, Gibbons?”

“Right,” Gibbons answered over the external loudspeakers.

“She’s still in there and you can rebuild her,” Clay said. “You’re good at that.”

Morley started to argue, but stopped when he saw the immensity of the siege engine that towered over them.

“What is this plan?” Morley asked, eyes locked on the machine. “How did you get the Perditions to call off the attack?”

“Let me fill you in on that,” Clay said and gestured for Morley to come closer. He whispered in Morley’s ear for several minutes, the old man’s eyes wide the entire time. “Understand?”

“You are sure?” Morley asked.

“I’m sure,” Clay said. “I checked.”

“Then that is why…” Morley started to say then caught himself and ended his statement with a shake of the head. “I will do it. I hope you are correct, Mr. MacAulay.”

“You and me both, Barnes,” Clay said. “You and me both.”

Thirty-Four

Morley caught a ride back to the town of Perdition Plains with Clay in the battle mech. The siege engine, what was left of it, rolled its way behind them, but it was too large and too slow to keep up.

Clay parked the battle mech in the center of the town and powered it down.

“Keep watch,” Clay said to Gibbons. “I don’t think we’ll need to leave in a hurry, but you never know.”

“Not my first rodeo, Clay,” Gibbons replied. “Be careful.”

“Will do,” Clay said as he climbed out of the cockpit with Morley right behind.

When they reached the street, they were greeted by one face only.

“Hello, Torsten,” Morley said. “Do you remember me?”

“Is that my pistol?” Clay grumbled, seeing his revolver strapped to Torsten’s hip. “Unbelievable. Holcomb gave my pistol to you? What the hell is a braindead piece of meat like you going to do with my pistol?”

Torsten didn’t respond, only turned around and led them into the room where the Perdition siblings seemed to always hold court.

“Mr. MacAulay,” Thaddeus said with a decrepit nod. “And Mr. Barnes. It is a pleasure to see you again, Morley.”

“I cannot say the same, Thaddeus,” Morley replied. “May we get this over with so I can tend to my daughter and we can get on with our lives?”

“Yes,” Thaddeus said. “Get on with your lives. What a fitting statement. I believe I would like to get on with my life, as would my brother and sisters. A life that shall last forever.”

“Forever is a long time, Mr. Perdition,” Clay said. “You sure you want to go through with this?”

Morley gave him a sharp look, but Clay ignored it.

“We are sure,” Thaddeus replied. “It is what we have wanted from Mr. Barnes for such a long time. Perhaps now our little feud can come to an end and we can coexist in peace.”

“Well, I’ll leave that between you folks,” Clay said as he pulled the pouch of Reaper chips from his pocket and shook it a couple times. “Here they are. All of them. Plenty for you four and more for those you deem worthy.”

“We will keep that in mind,” Thaddeus said. He nodded and Torsten snatched the pouch from Clay’s grasp. “Careful, Torsten. Do not damage them.”

The automaton handed the pouch to Thaddeus, and he opened it with reverence. He turned it upside down and spilled the chips into his open palm. A couple fell out onto the floor, and the Perdition siblings hissed.

“They are fine,” Morley said. “They can take a good amount of banging about with little to no damage. Otherwise, they would be useless in a human body.”

“The human body can be so fragile,” Thaddeus said as he placed the Reaper chips back in the pouch. He attempted to bend to pick up the spilled ones, but his body wouldn’t comply. “Ha. So fragile indeed. That will soon change. These chips not only bestow immortality, but also vigor and health. They will enliven us like we haven’t been in generations.”

Clay thought he saw happiness on the Perditions’ faces, but it was so hard to tell.

“You need a hand with this, Barnes?” Clay asked.

Morley shook his head. “I can handle the implantation myself,” he replied. “I have had so many years of experience. It will take no time at all.”

“Good,” Clay said. The room shook slightly, and Clay looked over his shoulder. “Very good. I think the siege engine has finally arrived. I’m going to keep an eye on it to make sure the Perditions don’t back out on their word.”

“Yes, please occupy yourself with that,” Thaddeus said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Torsten? Keep Mr. MacAulay company. I’d hate for him to get into any trouble out there alone. You just never know what might happen upon the streets of Perdition Plains.”

Clay nodded, but didn’t respond. He walked out of the room, onto the porch, down the steps, and over to the battle mech.

“Is it happening?” Gibbons asked over the com.

“It is,” Clay said.

“You’ve got yourself a shadow, pal,” Gibbons stated as Torsten joined Clay by his side.

Clay looked up at the dead face of the automaton. Then his eyes scanned down and he shook his head.

“Listen, pardner,” Clay said. “That’s my pistol you have there. Mine, not yours. You wouldn’t want to give it back, would ya?”

Torsten turned his head and peered down at Clay with his always dead, unforgiving gaze.

“No,” Torsten said.

Clay was shocked that the thing spoke. The shock turned to amusement, and he laughed as he patted Torsten on the elbow.

“Never you mind, big guy,” Clay said. “It’ll be in my hands soon.”

Torsten only stared at him.

Townsfolk scrambled down and out of the siege engine. Many of them came stomping over to Clay with rifles raised while some just wandered around the smoking wreck of a machine. Those with rifles stopped fast when they saw Torsten. The automaton didn’t make a move, didn’t show any sign he even saw the townsfolk, but they acted like he’d barked an order to back off.

They backed off and most went grumbling up the steps of the not-saloon.

“You know what? That sounds like a great idea,” Clay said. “I could go for a stiff drink right about now.”

“Clay,” Gibbons warned.

“Don’t worry, buddy, I have my shadow to keep me safe,” Clay said and patted Torsten on the elbow again. “Right, big guy?”

Clay walked up the steps and into the not-saloon. Heads turned, eyes narrowed, teeth were bared.

“I’m thinking you all are about to turn those frowns upside down,” Clay said. He received a couple of puzzled looks as he sidled up to the bar. “Liquor. Whatever you’ve got. But not that congealed crap. I want real hooch.”

The barman snarled and his lip curled to show a disgustingly brown incisor. He grabbed down a bottle of equally disgusting-looking liquor and poured a hearty shot for Clay. Without thinking about it, Clay downed the shot, slammed the glass onto the bar and waved a hand for more.

“Good stuff,” Clay said, struggling to keep from vomiting all over Torsten’s boots as the automaton stood right next to him, only a breath away. “Real good. How about another?”

The barman’s sneer grew and he poured a double. “Hope you don’t expect to be walking nowhere soon.”

“He speaks,” Clay laughed, downed the double shot and motioned for more.

The barman obliged and chuckled.

“I’m a mech pilot, sir,” Clay said. He downed the next double shot. “I don’t walk anywhere. I ride.”

Clay had to use all of his willpower to keep his gorge from coming up.

The townsfolk lost interest in him quickly and went back to being sullen and looking half dead like usual. Clay watched them, nodding and giving a smile to those that occasionally looked over at him.

An hour went by then a second and a third. The light outside began to wane.

Clay started to worry that maybe Morley couldn’t deliver, but then a voice called for him.

“We’re up,” Clay said to Torsten.

He walked from the not-saloon and took his sweet time crossing over to where the Perdition siblings all stood side by side in the street.

“Mr. MacAulay,” Thaddeus said. “I had believed your usefulness was at an end when you refused to surrender your mech to us. But you have certainly redeemed yourself by providing us with these miracles called Reaper chips.”

“That’s good to hear,” Clay said and gave a short bow. “So, I expect I am free to go? Along with Barnes here?”

“Yes, about that,” Thaddeus said. “I am afraid I cannot let Mr. Barnes leave Perdition Plains ever again.”

“That is a sad thing to hear, Mr. Perdition,” Clay said. “We had ourselves a deal. I take deals very seriously. There ain’t much in the way of currency left in this world except a man’s word. If you can’t keep yours then that means you are broke, Teddy.”

“I will have to politely disagree with you, Mr. MacAulay,” Thaddeus replied. “I am keeping my word with you. You may leave with your mech. Go do whatever it is you are off to do and never come around these parts again. As for Mr. Barnes, he will need to remain behind to ensure that there is no malfunction with the Reaper chips.”

“Oh, don’t you worry,” Clay said. “They won’t malfunction. They’ll work exactly like they’re supposed to.”

“I would like to believe you, Mr. MacAulay, but I am sure you can understand that perhaps trust isn’t exactly what our relationship is built upon,” Thaddeus responded.

“Is that so?” Clay said and pulled his pocket watch from out of his vest. He popped it open, scrolled to a timer he had set, and watched the seconds tick away.

“What are you doing?” Thaddeus asked. “Why are you looking at your watch?”

“This thing? Oh, well, you see, Teddy, I just wanted to make sure everything was timed just right,” Clay said. “Three, two, one. There. Now we are good to go.”

Clay looked at the four and smiled. Nothing happened. He kept smiling. Still nothing happened. He looked down at his watch and frowned.

“Huh, I must have miscalculated,” he said.

“Miscalculated what?” Thaddeus asked.

His answer was a cry of pain from Emily Perdition as she collapsed to the ground, her hands gripping the back of her neck. Black, sticky blood poured from her nose and mouth as wisps of smoke trickled up out of her ears.

“Emily!” Estelle cried as she reached for her dead sister. She made it half a step before she met the exact same fate.

Thackeray followed with barely the hint of reaction, leaving Thaddeus standing there alone.

“Torsten!” Thaddeus cried

The automaton spun about to grab Clay, but Clay was waiting for it.

“Told ya,” Clay said, his pistol off Torsten’s hip and in his hand before the big thing could even blink. “Adios.”

Clay pulled the trigger until the chamber clicked empty. Torsten’s head no longer existed and the body crumpled to the street.

“No!” Thaddeus yelled just before he grabbed the back of his neck with his hands and joined his siblings on the ground.

The Perditions were dead at last. Clay didn’t need to check pulses to know that. He certainly didn’t want to check pulses. There was no way he was touching those bodies.

“You were right,” Morley said as he hurried up to Clay. “How could you be sure?”

“I wasn’t,” Clay said.

“What?” Morley exclaimed.

“I figured it out when what happened to Paige happened to Paige,” Clay said. “The Reaper chips were meant for one purpose originally: to destroy the brain of their host if they died. Old safeguard for a world long dead. I had a hunch that if you put them in the Perditions, who are basically already dead, then it was only a matter of the chips doing a full body scan before activating. Fried ‘em dead dead.”

“Dead dead,” Morley said as he looked at the Perditions’ bodies. “I thought I only had converted chips in my possession.”

“There were only a handful of those ever made,” Clay said. “You got lucky that you didn’t get fried before we arrived. At least you saved Paige inside that mech.”

“I wouldn’t call it saving her,” Gibbons said.

“Nor would I,” Morley said, his voice heavy with grief.

There was the sound of a good many rifles being cocked behind Clay, and he slowly turned around to face the armed townsfolk as they stood on the porch of the not-saloon.

“Howdy, y’all,” Clay said. He nodded with his chin over his shoulder at the remains of the Perditions. “I took care of a little trash for ya. You can live, you can die, you can do whatever you all want to do. Your choice now.”

Eyes went from Clay to the Perditions and back. That lasted for a good five minutes before the rifles were lowered and everyone sauntered back into the not-saloon.

“Good choice,” Clay said. “Excuse me one second.”

He doubled over and threw up the nasty liquor. After several deep breaths, he straightened and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand that held the pistol. He looked down at Torsten’s corpse with the gun belt and holster firmly pinned.

“Care to give me a hand?” he asked Morley.

The two of them managed to shift the corpse’s sizable bulk enough to free the gun belt and holster.

“I appreciate it,” Clay said. “Care for a ride back to Paige?”

“I do,” Morley said.

Gibbons lowered a hand for them to climb onto. Once secured in the cockpit, the battle mech turned about, skirted the bulk of the siege engine, and left Perdition Plains for good.

Thirty-Five

It took some doing, but Clay managed to get the flesh mech torso back into the cavern. Once it was settled next to the other flesh mechs, he exited the battle mech and joined Morley on the ground.

“You know you can’t transfer anymore, right?” Clay asked as he held out his hand. Morley reluctantly handed him the pouch of Reaper chips. “Right, Barnes?”

“Yes, I understand that,” Morley said. “There still could be a solution.” He looked at the flesh mech torso. “I would hate for Paige to be stuck inside that the rest of her existence.”

“So would I, but you two have had more than your share of lives,” Clay replied. “You might want to think about retiring.”

“We shall see,” Morley responded. He held out a hand. “Godspeed to you, Clay MacAulay.”

“You as well, Morley Barnes,” Clay said and shook the offered hand. “Try to keep the mad science to a minimum. It’s gonna cause you nothing but trouble.”

“Yes, of course,” Morley said.

“And the killing stops, you hear?” Clay said, his voice resolute. “You’re done with other people’s bodies. Don’t make me come back.”

“I wouldn’t want that to happen,” Morley said. “The killings stop.”

With that answer, Morley turned and walked to the flesh mech torso indicating their time was done.

Clay shrugged and climbed back into his battle mech.

“Where to now?” Gibbons asked as they left the cavern.

“One quick stop,” Clay said and piloted the mech to the huge trench he’d cut to trap the riders and tweeners.

Some survivors still struggled, wriggling in the mass of blood and flesh that filled the trench. Clay ignored them, instead digging deep with both hands until he’d scooped most of the contents out of the trench and had piled it along the edge.

“Are you kidding me?” Gibbons asked as Clay climbed out of the mech.

“Be right back,” Clay said.

He climbed down and methodically began to dig through the hellish refuse. There might have been some throwing up, there certainly was some gagging. But eventually, Clay found what he wanted.

He wiped the hat off the best he could and plopped it on his head.

A hand reached out and gripped his boot.

“Damn, Holcomb,” Clay said. “You still alive?”

“No,” Holcomb said, his body broken and twisted.

Clay understood. He pulled his pistol and fired. Holcomb’s body went slack, finally seeing a little peace. Clay sighed and tipped his hat down at the body. He holstered his pistol and turned back to the battle mech.

“Don’t know where my knife is, but I got my hat and pistol,” Clay said as he climbed into the cockpit and sat down, a smug look on his face. “I call this a good day. Now, let’s get the hell out of here.”

“You think it’s that easy?” Gibbons chuckled. “We have another stop to make. I’m glad you liked today, because tonight is gonna suck for you, pal.”

“Why the hell is that?” Clay asked.

“Because you’re the only one that can do the repairs,” Gibbons said. “I ain’t got hands and fingers no more.”

“Whoa, hold on, are you taking us to the Vernacht?” Clay protested.

“That I am, pal, that I am,” Gibbons said, chuckling some more. “Best be thinking about what direction we’re going after you finish the repairs to the mech tonight. I do have some new coordinates that may interest you.”

“That so?” Clay asked.

“That’s so,” Gibbons replied. “We’ll talk while you do repairs.”

“You are such a giving AI,” Clay said. “Asshole.”

“I learned a lot while living in a meat bag,” Gibbons said. “It’s made me a better person.”

“Oh, shut up and get us to the Vernacht,” Clay said. “We’ll worry about you and your new coordinates tomorrow.”

The battle mech turned and lumbered in the direction of the ever-waiting construction mech. Before Clay and Gibbons reached the horizon, the sun had set and the world went from gloomy grey to gloomy black. Both Clay and Gibbons couldn’t wait to get the hell out of the Midlands.

Get as far away as humanly, and mechly, possible. Screw the Midlands and screw Perdition Plains.

Perdition Plains…

“Hey, Clay?” Gibbons asked.

“Yeah?” Clay replied.

“Aren’t there still people penned up in Perdition Plains? You know, the ones they like to eat?” Gibbons said.

“Son of a bitch,” Clay grumbled. “Looks like we have to add one more stop to the list. Dammit.”

He sighed.

“I hate the Midlands.”

The End

Read on for a free sample of The Void

1

It was the single most disconcerting sight Vichna Lashke had ever seen in her life. On one side of the bridge’s view screen she could see a field of stars, the entire expanse of the Milky Way and every star system humanity had ever visited or colonized. The other side was dark, inky blackness, a true void that her mind had trouble comprehending. Sure, if she looked in the right places she might see tiny smudges of color, all that the naked eye could see of other galaxies in their own corners of the universe. Except those were few and far between, doing little to relieve the disquiet from the reminder that she was quite literally on the edge of nothingness.

She could tell that the four hired mercenaries currently on the bridge, all official members of the crew unlike her, had similar feelings. The captain, Mart Lersson, sat in their chair absently picking at a piece of skin on their thumb. It was the quietest Vichna had seen Captain Lersson since meeting them thirteen standard days ago. On the other hand, the pilot, Elric Gregs, was uncharacteristically chatty, his voice providing a constant running commentary on everything from their speed to life sign readings. The latter, of course, was completely needless out here, but simply saying that there was nothing, or that nobody could live out here, seemed to help him deal with that fact.

Like Vichna, the two remaining people on the bridge didn’t have to be here for this part. Also like her, they apparently hadn’t been able to fight their curiosity. Both Bas Merton and Lussa Dakkenspear were here as security, the reason Vichna’s backers had hired this particular mercenary team. They were the firepower in the unlikely event that they all came across something during the mission that required itchy trigger fingers. Vichna had protested using a team that included so many ex-marines and fleet members when she was helping put the mission together, but in the case of Lussa, at least, Vichna was glad her backers had outvoted her. In the previous two weeks, they had become close, even sharing a bed on occasion when the boredom of deep space got to them and they needed something (or someone) to do. Bas was a different story. Vichna couldn’t exactly say she disliked him, but he came from a planet with some very old-fashioned views not shared by the rest of the mercenary crew. All attempts Vichna had made at talking to him had been tense, like at any moment he expected her to say something offensive so he could chew her out.

The only other person on the ship was Deck down in the engine room. He was an odd one, preferring to spend his time tinkering with the space-fold drive rather than hanging around anyone else, but during the few times Vichna had interacted with him, he’d been pleasant. Captain Lersson said he was the one on the ship with the experience in these deep space missions, and the sight of all the blackness had done strange things to his personality. Experiencing the emptiness herself now for the first time, Vichna could understand.

Captain Lersson looked her direction and must have seen something worrisome on her face. “It’s not always this disturbing,” they said. “You get used to it.”

“How many times have you been out this far?” Vichna asked.

“This is my second time,” Lersson said.

“But I thought you said Deck had been to the edge several times.”

Gregs was the one who answered her. “Deck wasn’t with the marines. He was with the fleet. He served on the Merv Swansson for three years.”

Vichna certainly recognized the name of the ship. She should, considering the role it had played in the Violet and Lily Wars, which had been the subject of many of her studies. It annoyed her a little that they had such a notable veteran with them this whole time, yet no one had thought to tell her before now. Although part of that was her own fault, she supposed. The team knew that they’d been hired to escort her to find something, but to maintain secrecy, none of them had been told exactly what yet. Now they were here, though, practically on top of it from a galactic standpoint, and completely out of range for any kind of space-fold contact with any ship, colony, or inhabited planet.

“These are the correct coordinates I gave you?” Vichna asked the captain.

“We’re coming up on them. Can you finally tell us what exactly we’re looking for?”

“If you find something out here, anything at all, then obviously that’s what we’re here for.”

“Then maybe we were paid to come out here for nothing, because I’m not seeing anything.” There was a very clear note of frustration in the captain’s voice, and Vichna couldn’t blame them. All the people on the ship were right now on the very edge of the known galaxy. Here there were no outposts, no emergency supply caches, no help of any kind. It would have been dangerous if there were even anything out here to be afraid of, unless she counted the emptiness of space itself. If they went out any farther, they would vanish into the literal nothingness of the universe.

Which, of course, was why someone long ago had decided this would be the perfect hiding place.

“Finally picking up a faint radioactive signature,” Gregs said from his console. “It’s not much stronger than the background radiation. Probably wouldn’t have noticed it if we weren’t looking.” He turned to Vichna. “Is that it?”

“I think so,” she said. She actually knew so, but after so long searching for it, she almost felt afraid to jinx herself at the last moment.

“Visual?” Captain Lersson asked Gregs.

“It’s still pretty far away,” he said. “But whatever it is, it’s big.”

“How big?” Vichna asked.

“Similar to a decent-sized asteroid.” He looked to her for confirmation that was correct, but Vichna couldn’t speak. For most of her life, nearly one hundred and thirty-two years, she’d been looking for this. Granted, that only made her middle-aged, but sometimes it had felt like longer.

“So are you finally going to tell us what it is?” Lussa asked. “Or are you going to leave us guessing all the way up until the moment we can actually see it?”

“If I’m right, you’ll want to wait,” Vichna said. “This should be impressive. I hope.”

“We’ve still got some distance to go yet before we’ll even be able to make out details,” Gregs said. “Want me to space fold until we’re right next to it?”

The captain looked like they were about to okay this, but Vichna stopped them. “No! There… there might be some danger if we show up too suddenly.” The captain shrugged. If anyone was upset at the idea that what they were here for might be dangerous, nobody showed it. They were usually paid for danger, after all, and they also had the mini-arsenal that her sponsors had paid to be brought along with them in the hold of the ship.

It took several more minutes before they were able to see anything with the naked eye, a problem caused by both the distance and the near-total lack of light. They had to rely on sensor images for most of the approach even as they got closer, and Vichna had the sensation of a large, invisible mouth approaching from ahead. Finally, they were close enough that the measly amount of light given off by their ship could be seen against the side of the approaching…

“Whoa,” Merton said. “What even is that?”

“That” was a matte-black, blocky structure floating in the emptiness for no apparent reason. The design didn’t look like anything special, or even functional for that matter. It looked like the designer (as the thing was definitely man-made) had simply taken a cube and then haphazardly continued to add smaller cubes to random places on its sides until the entire thing resembled a heavily-pixilated peanut. It would have seemed ridiculous if not for the enormous size of it. Gregs’ estimation that it was the size of an asteroid wasn’t far off, yet the thing still dwarfed their ship by a magnitude of about twenty or thirty. And even now, it was still hard to see, as whatever material it had been made out of was pure black and absorbed everything but direct light shined right upon it. Vichna looked to see if the structure had any thrusters or engines, something to indicate how it had been moved here in the first place, but there was nothing. She supposed it could have been built directly in this spot, although it was hard to imagine any construction team being able to stay sane in the emptiness long enough to finish it.

“This is really what we were hired to come out here and find?” the captain asked.

“Yes, this is it,” Vichna said, not that she had ever seen it or even found a proper description of it. No one had, even if it was a fairy tale that everyone had heard at least once in their lifetimes. “It has to be. There’s nothing else it could be.”

“Well?” Merton asked. “Are you finally going to grace our ears with whatever secret you’ve been keeping?”

Vichna took a deep breath, less because she needed it and more for dramatic effect. “It’s the Void.”

Three of the four other people on the bridge reacted exactly the way she’d hoped they would. Captain Lersson turned to her with an expression that clearly said they didn’t believe her. Gregs also stared at her but with his mouth agape. Merton just kept staring at the image on the screen in front of them. He was the only one on the ship with skin light enough for Vichna to see him visibly pale. Only Lussa looked confused.

“The Void?” she asked.

Vichna was about to answer but Merton beat her to it. “A space station. The space station. The one used by Captain Melissa Harvey.”

“Oh,” was all Lussa could say. That name she clearly recognized. Vichna would have been shocked if she hadn’t. It did, after all, belong to the worst mass murderer ever known to the human race, a woman responsible for the complete genocide of eight entire star systems.

They all stared at the station floating outside their ship, a creation that most people only knew as something out of their nightmares. For many seconds, no one spoke.

Finally, Gregs said, “I thought it would be bigger.”

The Void is available from Amazon here.

Table of Contents

- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five